
HER FATHER'S CONSENT. 



Home and School Reciter 




READINGS, DECLAMATIONS 






AND PLAYS 






Original Compositions and Choice Selections 






of the Best Literature 






CONTAINING ALSO THE MOST COMPLETE AND MODERN RULES FOR 






VOICE AND PHYSICAL CULTURE 




FOR HOME, SCHOOL AND ALL 


PUBLIC AND SOCIAL ENTERTAINMENTS 




^Y • "WRITTEN, COMPILED AND ARRANGED 


\ 




RICHARD LINTHICUM 






THE WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR, JOURNALIST AND CRITIC OF LITERATURE AND PLAYS 






WITH INTRODUCTION, SPECIAL SELECTIONS AND LESSON TALKS 






MARVIN VICTOR HIINSHAW 






OF THE CELEBRATED HlNSHAW SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION, ORATORY A^MUSIC >, 3 

Sumptuously Illustrated with 


, 








"Beautiful Full Tage Photo "Pictures from Life 




J. S. ZI EG LER & CO. 


CHICAGO, ILL. 





\ 



\ by 



Trt£"Ll8RARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Coptee Received 

JUL. 18 1902 

EIIQHT EKTRV 
bs XXo. No, 
COPY 8. 



COPYRIGHT, 1902, 

BY 

RICHARD LINTHICUM 



• • • ♦ • ■ 



= PREFACE 

f~\ NE of the most pleasing and rational forms of entertainment is in those public and 
v_/ private gatherings at which selections from the best literature are read and 
recited, dialogues and tableaux presented, together with drills, marches, pantomime 
and musical features, which go to make up the programmes on such occasions. They 
not only afford enjoyable recreation, but are instructive and educative as well, incul- 
cating and developing sound patriotism, and teaching in the most pleasing way the 
great moral lessons of life. 

The publishers of this volume have learned from experience that there is a gen- 
eral demand for a book to supply the material for these entertainments, which shall 
not only contain the choicest selections in the English language, but shall have a 
practical value through the arrangement by an expert of these selections into pro- 
grammes for every occasion. 

In this volume, prepared by a writer of wide experience, both in literature and in 
toe direction of home, church and school entertainments, the publishers feel confi- 
dent that they have met this demand. 

The introductory chapter on THE ART OF ELOCUTION contains complete 
instructions and rules laid down by the best teachers of elocution, for the guidance of 
those who wish to read, speak, recite, sing, act, or take part in any entertainment, public 
or private. This chapter teaches how to cultivate, develop, and use the voice; how 
to make correct gestures, how to give correct expression in recitations through the use 
of the head, the eyes, the arms, the body, and the lower limbs, and at the same time 
teaches the reader how to acquire gracefulness and self-possession, which are so 
; necessary to a successful appearance in public. To these instructions have been 
added Physical Culture Exercises for the body, which are so simple that anyone can 
quickly learn and perform them. 

Many of the selections both in prose and in verse are original and appear in print 
in this volume for the first time. 

The variety of original and selected recitations and dialogues is shown by the 
various divisions made with reference to the subjects of which the selections treat: 

Juvenile Gems for the Children contains selections suitable for little folks of all 
ages, from the smallest tot to boys and girls who are verging on young manhood and 
womanhood. They are all selections which the children themselves like and were sub- 
mitted to the approval of children of various ages before they were compiled in this 
volume. 

Patriotism and War contains the best patriotic and stirring literature that has been 
written from Revolutionary days to and including our war with Spain. National and 
School Holidays contain appropriate selections for each day observed as a holiday 
either in the nation or in the school, including New Year's Day, Lincoln's Birthday, 

7 



8 PREFACE. 

Washington's Birthday, Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Labor 
Day, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas. 

Around the Evening Lamp is a department containing selections to be read or 
recited in the home circle after the evening lamp has been lit and the family has gath- 
ered around it for entertainment. 

A great deal of space has been given to dialogues and pieces in which a half dozen 
or more persons can take part. There is such a great variety of these that some one 
or more of them will be found suitable for every occasion or form of entertainment that 
can arise. 

Particular care has been used in preparing and selecting Tableaux, Pantomimes, 
Drills, and similar features, including the Maypole Dance and the Minuet, all ar- 
ranged in attractive manner, with full explanation and direction how to present them. 
Other attractive features and departments in this volume will be found in the depart- 
ments of Humorous Recitations, Religious and Moral, Dialect Selections, Temperance, 
Dramatic Readings, Orations of the World's Great Men, Love and Sentiment, and Mis- 
cellaneous Selections. 

For the guidance and instruction of persons getting up .and directing entertain- 
ments at home or in the church and school, a series of programmes are presented in this 
volume which will be found to meet the demand of every occasion. 

The magnificent illustrations in this volume are not only sumptuous and beauti- 
ful but they have the same practical value as the selections. They are made from actual 
photographs of real scenes presented at public entertainments, and in addition to their 
beauty and appropriateness as works of art, they will serve to guide and instruct be- 
ginners in the art of appearing successfully in public entertainments. 

It will be seen from the foregoing that the claim made for this volume as a COM- 
PLETE AND THOROUGHLY PRACTICAL SPEAKER AND RECITER is well 
founded. 

Very respectfully, THE PUBLISHERS. 



Untrobuction anb Lesson ttalh 

By MARVIN VICTOR HINSHAW 

OF THE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF ELOCUTION, ORATORY AND MUSIC 



^* c5* l5* 



The art of elocution and oratory is not, 
as many erroneously suppose, an artificial 
combination of tones, looks and gestures, 
but is the scientific portrayal of thoughts 
and emotions by means of vocal and 
physical expression. A knowledge of a 
few fundamental rules and principles which 
govern these methods of expression will 
equip the elocutionist or orator to appear to 
advantage before an audience. The meas- 
ure of success to be attained afterward will 
depend upon the speaker's capacity to 
think the thoughts and feel the emotions to 
be expressed. 

Naturalness, ease and grace are essential 
to success in public speaking. The easiest 
and most graceful position is to stand 
erect, not stiffly, but naturally, with one foot 
slightly in advance of the other and the 
weight of the body on the back foot. Then 
speak clearly and distinctly; do not hurry 
your enunciation of words, but speak every 
syllable plainly, sounding all of the conso- 
nants at the end of the words, but sustain- 
ing only the vowels. 

While speaking, support the tone entirely 
by the breath ; do not use the muscles of the 
throat for this purpose. Speak from the 
diaphragm, in other words let the tones 
come from the chest and not from the 



throat, otherwise the voice will not carry, 
and the audience will hear only a confusion 
of gutteral sounds. The power which 
propels the breath is in the diaphragm and 
walls of the chest, therefore diaphragmatic 
breathing is always correct, and not abdom- 
inal breathing as many suppose. Speak 
with forceful and compact m breath, and 
never breathe in the middle of the phrase, 
— but only between phrases — all pauses 
which occur during the continuance of a 
phrase must be made without renewing the 
breath in order to be effective. 

Correct phrasing can be acquired by al- 
ways speaking in phrases, and not by the 
live or semi-phrase. 

While it is essential to correct speaking 
that there should be no hurry, it is quite as 
important that the delivery should not be 
prolonged, but that each phrase and sen- 
tence should be spoken with regularity. 

Aside from the regular pauses indicted 
by punctuation, the speaker should always 
make such pauses as will strengthen the 
meaning of the words. A word can fre- 
quently be emphasized to a greater degree 
by a momentary pause than it can by any 
stress of voice. 

In another chapter will be found sug- 
gestions concerning gesture with the most 



10 



INTRODUCTION. 



important gestures illustrated by photo- 
graphs. To this I wish to add that although 
correct gesture is one of the greatest aids 
of expression, too many gestures will spoil 
the effect of what would otherwise be a 
most successful effort. Therefore, I advise 
the use of few gestures and only such as 
will tend to emphasize what is said. 

The rules for speaking apply with the 
same force and exactness to reading, for 
reading should be a perfect facsimile of 
speaking. 

In speaking, reading, or portraying a 
character in a dialogue or play speak with 
the face as well as the voice. Exercise the 
facial muscles and practice until you can 
control them, for the emotions of Anger, 
Love, Grief, Fear, Surprise, Hate, etc., 
should be mirrored in the face as well as 
conveyed by the voice. 

Every part of the body can be made to 
aid expression — the arms, the hands, the 
eyes, the legs, the feet, the head — there is 
use for them all, particularly in portraying 
characters in dialogues and plays, where 



there is wider range of expression than in 
a single recitation. 

But whether the character to be por- 
trayed, whether in recitation, dialogue or 
play, the speaker should always speak in 
a voice natural to such a character, and 
for the time being imagine himself or her- 
self that particular individual. 

The selections in this volume are ad- 
mirably adapted to the widest range of 
elocutionary, oratorical and dramatic ex- 
pression, and embrace a wide variety of the 
best literature for use in public and private 
entertainments. 

The illustrations are very effective and 
will greatly aid the speaker to appear before 
the public to the best advantage, inasmuch 
as they portray actual scenes in a great 
variety of entertainments. The photo-pic- 
tures which accompany the lesson on Ges- 
ture show the expression of various emo- 
tions, through the attitude, the position of 
the arms and other parts of the body. The 
facial expression is excellent in all of them 
and they are a safe guide to any student of 
elocutionary art. M. V. H. 




Photo by Byron, N. Y. 

THE SWEETEST STORY EVER TOLD. 




A PLEA FOR FORGIVENESS. 



CONTENTS 



Preface 7 

Introduction 9 

Contents 13 

Index 14 

List of Illustrations 17 

Art of Elocution 21 

National Readings and Declamations 31 

Around the Evening Lamp 55 

Patriotism and War 69 

Juvenile Gems for the Children 85 

Choice Humor 115 

Love and Sentiment 129 

Told in Dialect 141 

Modern Dialogues and Plays 153 

Dramatic Readings and Recitations 221 

Treasure Trove — World Favorites 241 

Great Orations 255 

Temperance Selections 265 

Religious Readings 279 

Effective Tableaux 287 

Miscellaneous Selections 299 

Little Nature Studies 351 

Clever Monologues 359 

Tiny Tots 371 

Descriptive Recitations 379 

Encores 413 

Humorous and Pathetic 439, 461 

13 



INDEX 



A Bird Story 352 

A Birthday Address 33 

A Boy's Wish 377 

A Christmas Pantomime 287 

A Dream 136 

A Farmer Father's Philosophy .131 

A Father's Advice to His Son 317 

A Gentleman 316 

A Good Country For All 41 

A Grove of Historic Trees 180 

A Home Where God Is 283 

A Human Question Point 90 

A Legend of Bregenz 407 

A Little Boy's Essay on Kats 351 

A Love Song 131 

A Memorial Day Exercise 50 

A Newsboy in Church 410 

A New Year's Talk 46 

A Pageant of the Months 153 

A Peach Pie 179 

A Picture 136 

A Private Rehearsal 367 

A Race for Life 236 

A Sermon In Flowers 354 

A Small Boy's Advice. 377 

A Song for Your Birthday 103 

A String of Bird's Eggs 356 

A Tale of Whoa 428 

A Tenement House Guest 405 

A Tragedy of the Plains 402 

A Woman's Rights Meeting 195 

A Wonderful Discovery 118 

About Firecrackers 86 

About Ready to Show Off 106 

Abraham Brought to Bay. 58 

Absalom 449 

Address for Decoration Day 52 

Ain't He Cute? 416 

Always Consult Your Wife 311 

An April Welcome 355 

An Uncomplaining Man 327 

Arathusa's Brother Jack 99 

Arizony Ray 331 

Aunty Doleful Cheers the Sick 364 

Baby on the Train 113 

Babykin, Boykin no 

Baby's Opinions 122 

Backbiters Bitten 183 

Barbara Frietchie 70 

Barcarolle 369 

Battle Hymn of the Republic 71 

Be Careful What You Say 427 

Be in Earnest 97 

Beautiful Annabel Lee 252 

Because She Loved Him 130 

Bedtime 328 

Ben Hur's Chariot Race 221 

Bill and Joe 251 

Bill Smith's Courtship 124 

Birth of the New South 260 

Blaine's Oration on Garfield 257 

Bob-o'-link 353 

Borrowing Trouble 420 

Boys Wanted 112 



Brevities 305 

Burial Under Fire 69 

Cabin Philosophy 340 

Calling a Boy in the Morning 117 

Canadian Camping Song 314 

Casey at the Bat 306 

Cassius Against Caesar 233 

Cato On Immortality 459 

Caudle's Shirt Buttons 115 

Charity's Meal 442 

Children's Alphabet 371 

Chorus of the Flowers 335 

Conkling's Eulogy of Grant 259 

Consolation 151 

Contented Jim .319 

Contentment Better Than Riches 433 

Couldn't Take the Hint 94 

Courtship at the Huskin' Bee 145 

Dare and Do 378 

Death-bed of Benedict Arnold 459 

Death of Little Jo 444 

Death of Little Nell 280 

De Bugle on De Hill 82 

Decoration Day 41 

De Cote-House In De Sky 147 

Der Drummer 150 

Dominion Day 315 

Don't 91 

"Don't Cheer, Boys; They're Dying" 81 

Drink and Die 267 

Drinking A Home - 271 

Easter 422 

Easter Flowers 351 

Easter Morning 377 

Evangeline on the Prairie 133 

Evening at the Farm 98 

Exercise in Pronunciation 60 

Farmer Ben's Theory 128 

Faro Bill's Sermon 60 

Fire In the Woods 224 

Flag of the Rainbow 79 

Forget Me Not 354 

Forty Years Ago 248 

Fox and Geese 218 

Garfield's Tribute to His Fallen Comrades... 37 

George Washington's Little Hatchet 87 

Gettysburg, 1895 78 

Going Home To-day 379 

Good-night, Papa 268 

Got Stripes Down His Legs 326 

Grandfather's Story 72 

Grandma's Knitting Story 397 

Grandma's Wedding Day 398 

Grant's Heritage 262 

Greeting 107 

Grind Your Axe In the Morning 421 

Hans' Registered Letter 148 

Have Only Good Words for All 104 

Have You Planted a Tree 43 

Henry V. at Harfleur 240 

Her First Party 418 

Hiawatha 293 

Hiawatha's Wooing 59 

His Best Prayer 331 



INDEX, 



15 



Hobson and His Chosen Seven , 81 

Hobson's Choice 202 

Hopper and Bee 357 

How Did Dis Yere World Git Yere? 141 

How Ruby Played 229 

How the Children Are Taught 105 

How to Act Shadow Pictures 288 

I Have Drank My Last Glass 270 

If in 

If I Were a Flower 352 

Immortality 284 

In Liquor 375 

In Manila Bay 447 

In Many Lands 376 

It's My Nature 420 

Jack and the Rabbit 93 

Jest 'Fore Christmas 39 

Jim 33& 

Jim Bludso, of "The Prairie Belle" 151 

Joe 337 

John Anderson 246 

Katrina's Visit to New York 143 

Keep a Stiff Upper Lip 339 

Kindness and Cruelty 178 

Kit Carson's Ride 322 

Kitty in School 100 

Labor 49 

Lame O'Dee 416 

Leave Old Glory As It Is 449 

Lessons From Scripture Flowers 332 

Like Other Men 313 

Limpy Tim 440 

Lincoln on Slavery 258 

Lincoln's Address at Gettysburg 256 

Little Boy Blue 91 

Little Breeches 149 

Little By Little 90 

Little Dot 108 

Little Orphant Annie 95 

Little Red Riding Hood 168 

Lorraine Lorree 313 

Love's Railway 299 

Love's Year 132 

Lying In China 422 

Mabel and Her Mother 96 

Macbeth to the Dagger 228 

Making Success 380 

Mammy's Hushaby 150 

Marching Song of the Rough Riders 82 

Mark Twain as a Farmer 413 

McKinley's Eulogy of Lincoln 255 

Measuring the Baby 456 

Memorial Day 38 

Memory 427 

Minnie Had a Little Lamb 376 

Misled by the Moon 143 

Mistletoe 40 

Money Musk 300 

Morn on the Mountain 355 

Mother and Poet 461 

Mother Earth and the May Queen 197 

Mother's Punkin' Pies 305 

Motion Song With the Hands 375 

Mr. Meek's Dinner 341 

Mr. Pinchem's Clerk 177 

Mr. Spoopendyke's Share ' S7 

Mrs. Rabbit's School 89 

My Bob Sled 430 



My Dear True-Love 373 

My First Recitation 392 

My Little Sister 378 

Nathan Hale 77 

Nearer Home 282 

Nobody's Child 455 

O, Captain, My Captain 426 

Old Bob's Life Insurance 117 

Old Ironsides 71 

Old Mart and Me 307 

On the Skaguay Trail 314 

On Time — A Farce 186 

One, Two, Three 434 

Only a Boy 90 

Only a Lock of Soft Gold Hair 132 

Only Nation With a Birthday 417 

Opening Address no 

Othello's Apology 232 

Our Heroic Dead 40 

Our Lost Treasure 129 

Over the River 252 

Over the Telephone 344 

Papa's Sum in Fractions 55 

Partnership 373 

Pat Dolan's Wedding 161 

Pat's Excelsior 116 

Patience Works Wonders 100 

Pauline Pauloona 435 

Pitcher or Jug 431 

Platonic 134 

Playing Lovers 129 

Poor Adam 374 

President Lincoln's Favorite Poem 241 

Pretty Groups for Children 298 

Quebec 80 

Queer English Language 121 

Recessional 283 

Regulas to the Romans 457 

Rhoomatiz or Suthin' Else 362 

Rock Me to Sleep, Mother 246 

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 249 

Roger and 1 250 

Running a Race 374 

Sample Rooms 276 

Sand . 312 

Saved By a Song 274 

Saving Mother 321 

Seth Peters' Report of Daniel Webster's 

Speech '234 

Seven Ages of Man 228 

Shake Und Der Vidder 142 

She Didn't Want Much 99 

Simon Soggs' Thanksgiving 38 

Sister Sallie Jones 424 

Somebody 326 

Sometime, Somewhere 281 

Spoopendyke's Bicycle 67 

Sylvy Hook on Clubs and Societies 359 

Taking the Census 174 

Temperance Speech 269 

Thanksgiving in Many Lands 35 

That's Our Baby 104 

The Aged Prisoner .452 

The American Boy 89 

The Babies' Bedtime 372 

The Bad Little Boys 85 

The Bald-Headed Tyrant 86 

The Best Sewing Machine 330 



16 



INDEX. 



The Bitterness of Childhood 375 

The Blue and the Gray 35 

The Bootblack 454 

The Boy and the Boot 378 

The Boy to the Schoolmaster 328 

The Brakeman at Church 61 

The Bridal Pledge 265 

The Broomstick Drill . .285 

The Brownie's Christmas 43 

The Builders 423 

The Cat's Bath 107 

The Character and Work of Gladstone 261 

The Child and the Star 108 

The Child Musician 458 

The Christmas Ball 371 

The Christian Gladiator 388 

The Church Choir 123 

The Closing Year 349 

The Coming Millions 338 

The Countersign Was Mary 451 

The Courtin' 429 

The "Coward" in Battle 76 

The Creeds of the Bells 279 

The Dead Doll 113 

The Delinquent Subscriber 401 

The Dignity of Labor 42 

The Doll Queen 92 

The Doll's Funeral. 92 

The Doll's Lesson 85 

The Drummer Boy's Burial. 396 

The Dying Boy 441 

The Dying Soldier 391 

The Eagle Screams 52 

The Eggs That Never Hatch 318 

The Engine Driver's Story 238 

The Exile of Erin 242 

The Fading Leaf 439 

The Farmer's Life 96 

The Five Little Chickens 104 

The Flying Dutchman 308 

The Foolish Little Maiden 415 

The Fountain of Tears 130 

The Girl Behind the Man Behind the Gun. . .140 

The Good Old Time Religion... 426 

The Harvest Queen and Her Maidens 194 

The Hole in His Pocket 87 

The Hurricane 253 

The Huskin' _ 139 

The Hypochondriac 361 

The Last of the Choir 386 

The Little German Mother 384 

The Little Hunchback 97 

The Little Old Log House Where We Were 

Born 301 

The Little Rid Hin 146 

The Little Speaker 108 

The Man That Married 317 

The Man Who Knows It All 428 

The Manger of Bethlehem 37 

The Masquerade 365 

The May Pole 290 

The Meaning of the American Flag 41 

The Men Who Lose 310 

The Might of Love 404 

The Minuet 292 

The Mites In the Cheese 431 

The Name of Kate 122 

The Naughty Boy 112 



The Old Arm Chair > 249 

The Old Farm Kitchen 31 

The Old Oaken Bucket 247 

That Old Red Sunbonnet 425 

The Old Year and the New 46 

The Rail Fence 417 

The Regular Army Man 74 

The Resettlement of Arcadia 63 

The Rough Rider 299 

The Ruler Iv the Town 147 

The Seasons 106 

The Shipwreck 385 

The Singer's Climax 446 

The Small Boy's Troubles 103 

The Soldier's Wife 448 

The Song of the Gun 75 

The Squirrel's Lesson 114 

The Streams of Life 310 

The Street of By-and-By in 

The Tables Turned 433 

The Three Holidays 45 

The Torpedo Boat 79 

The True Gentleman 319 

The True Story of Little Boy Blue 109 

The Two Glasses 272 

The Two Great Flags 76 

The Unhappy Home 166 

The Usual Way 133 

The Village Blacksmith 245 

The Volunteer Organist 409 

The Volunteer's Uniform 346 

The Worn Wedding Ring 135 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 387 

The Young Seamstress 419 

Their Preferences 377 

There Is No Death 282 

There Is No Unbelief 284 

They All Sang Annie Laurie 325 

They've Stopped Selling Liquor in Town. .. .273 

Three for the Tots 376 

Through Grandfather's Spectacles 334 

To a Mouse In a Trap 302 

Too Late for the Train 303 

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 275 

Trekking 80 

Two Women's Lives 327 

Valedictory 94 

Valedictories 53 

Vat I Call Him 432 

Watching Baby As It Sleeps 114 

Watching the New Year In 36 

Water 432 

Washington's Birthday 453 

What About the Hired Man 333 

What Little Things Can Do 105 

When I Built the Cabin 56 

When Mamma Cleans House 93 

When Pa Begins to Shave 103 

When School Days Are Ended 215 

When the Spanish War Broke Out 75 

Where He Did It 374 

Which Loved Her Best 418 

Whistling in Heaven 237 

Why Betty Didn't Laugh 420 

Why He Wouldn't Sell the Farm 394 

Why She Didn't Stay in the Poorhouse 320 

Willie's Signal for Jesus 383 

Yawcob Strauss 152 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



Her Father's Consent Frontispiece 

The Sweetest Story Ever Told n 

A Plea for Forgiveness 12 

Dignity 2I 

Ridicule 2I 

Awkward Imitation 22 

Discernment 22 

Gracefulness 2 3 

The Awkward Salute 23 

Surprise 24 

Coquetry 24 

Cheerfulness 25 

Sauciness 25 

Fearlessness 26 

Fear. 26 

Anxiety 27 

Reproach 27 

Innocent Coyness 28 

Wonderment 28 

The Ideal Poise 29 

The Soldier's Farewell 30 

Telling Mother 47 

Love's Doubts and Fears 48 

From the Absent One 65 

The Unseen Threat 66 

Barbara Frietchie 83 

Grandfather's Story 84 

Wide Awake 101 

A Day Dream 101 



The Donkey Express 102 

"I Wonder If It's a Valentine?" 119 

The Telltale Letter 120 

The Proposal 137 

"My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose !" 138 

The Maypole Dance 155 

Children's Drill ' 156 

A Struggle For Life 189 

A Dramatic Scene From Darkest Africa 190 

A Token of Love 207 

The Duet 208 

"I Am Innocent; Before Heaven I Declare 

It!" 225 

A Dark Plot 226 

Sharing A Sorrow 243 

The Pledge of Love and Honor 244 

The Unhappy Home 277 

Fairer Than the Lily 278 

Enraptured 278 

Our Little Artist (Plate I) 295 

Our Little Artist (Plate II) 296 

The Letter to Papa (Plate I) 329 

The Letter to Papa (Plate II) 330 

"When Grandma Danced the Minuet" 347 

"Guard!" 348 

The First Party 381 

The Christmas Ball 382 

"Don't Go. For My Sake, Don't Go" 399 

The Listeners 400 



17 



Exercises for the Bob\> 



&5* «j* «5* 



1. With body erect and hands at sides, 
move the head to right and left, and for- 
ward and backward ; cultivates the muscles 
of the neck. 

2. With hands on the hips, move the 
upper part of the body to right and left, 
and forward and backward ; this cultivates 
the muscles of the chest and back. 

3. Close the hands, extend the arms in 
front, and bring the hands together behind 
the back; repeat at least twenty times. 

4. Stand erect, with arms straight at 
the sides ; move the arms outward from 
the sides, and elevate them, bringing the 
hands above the head; repeat at least 
twenty times. 

5: Hold the right arm out horizontally, 
palm of hand upward ; double the left arm, 
the tips of the fingers resting on the shoul- 
der; then stretch out the left arm, at the 
same time doubling the right arm and 
placing the tips of the fingers on the right 
shoulder ; repeat, and then make the move- 
ments with both arms simultaneously. 

6. Holding the arms straight, swing 
them with a rotary motion, thrusting them 
forward a!s they are elevated and back- 
ward as they are lowered, bringing them to 
the sides, and then repeat. 

7. Lift the hands from the sides to the 
shoulders, then raise the arms at full length 
above the head, and also extend them hori- 
zontally, dropping them at the sides; re- 
peat. 

8. Standing erect, with the hands on the 
hips, lower the body, bending the knees, 
the weight resting on the toes, and rise; 
repeat at least fifteen times, but not too 
fast. 

9. Placing the hands on the hips, right 



leg forward and left leg slightly bent-; 
thrust the body forward, thus straighten- 
ing the left leg and bending the right ; then 
placing the left leg forward, repeat move- 
ments. 

10. With the body bent forward, closed 
hands between the knees, raise the body 
and elevate the hands above the head, tak- 
ing care to keep the arms straight ; repeat. 

11. Place the hands on the front side of 
the hips, bend the body forward, and then 
rise to an erect position, at the same time 
throwing the head backward; repeat. 

12. Steady yourself with one hand on 
a chair; place the other hand on the hip 
and swing the leg forward across the other ; 
then backward; repeat and then swing the 
other leg in like manner. 

13. Steady yourself with one hand on a 
chair, place the other hand on the hip, and 
swing the leg forward and backward; re- 
peat, and then swing the other leg in like 
manner. 

14. Stretch the body forward, placing 
the hands on the bottom of a chair ; then 
straighten the arms and raise the body. 
This must not be repeated so many times as 
to render the muscles sore and stiff. 

15. Extend the arms forward at full 
length, palms downward; then move the 
hands backward and forward as far as pos- 
sible ; this renders the fingers and muscles 
of the wrist pliant. 

16. Stand erect with hands on the hips 
and light weight on the head ; then rise on 
the toes and fall. 

17. Extend the arms slightly from the 
sides, close the hands and then rotate 
them; this cultivates the muscles of the 
arms. 



18 



ftbe Brt of Elocution 

How to Read and Recite Correctly with Rules for the Cultivation of the Voice 



t&* t&& fcT* 



ELOCUTION is the art of reading and 
speaking correctly. Its rules relate 
chiefly to the management of the voice in 
the expression of thought and emotion. 

The vocal qualifications, necessary to 
enable the reader or speaker to bring out 
the sense and sentiment of discourse in a 
pleasing and impressive manner, are: 

First, a clear, full, resonant voice. 

Second, a perfectly distinct, and correct 
articulation. 

Third, such a control of the voice, as to 
be able to vary its modulations at pleasure. 

Ignorance of the right way of using the 
lungs and the larynx, in speaking, reading, 
singing, has caused more cases of bronchi- 
tis and pulmonary consumption among stu- 
dents, vocalists, clergymen and other public 
speakers, than all other causes combined. 

The right use of the breathing apparatus, 
in connection with the exercise of the 
voice, ought, therefore, to be the first sub- 
ject to which the attention of the student of 
Elocution is called. Before the pupil is 
permitted to read a sentence, he must be 
taught, not by precept, but by example, 
how to manage the breath while exercising 
the voice. 

The person thus trained will speak, read 
or sing, in a clear, full, natural tone, and 
will grow up, in a great measure, free from 
the worst faults and defects in Elocution. 
BREATHING EXERCISE. 

Stand or sit erect ; keep the head up and 
the chest expanded; throw the shoulders 
well back; place the hands upon the hips, 
with the fingers pressing upon the abdo- 



men, and the thumbs extending backward ; 
inhale the breath slowly, until the lungs 
are fully inflated, retaining the breath for 
a few moments, then breathing it out as 
slowly as it was taken in. 

Let the chest rise and fall freely at every 
inspiration, and take care not to make the 
slightest aspirate sound, in taking or giving 
out the breath. 

Continue to take in and throw out the 
breath with increasing rapidity, until you 
can instantly inflate, and, as suddenly, 
empty the lungs. Repeat this exercise sev- 
eral times a day, and continue it as long as 
it is unattended with dizziness or other un- 
pleasant feelings. 

EXPRESSION. 

Expression includes the rules and exer- 
cise which relate to the management of 
the voice, the look, gesture and action, in 
the expression, thought, sentiment and 
passion. 

Exercises in articulation should be prac- 
ticed until a good control of the voice has 
been obtained. 

A good articulation consists in giving to 
each element in a syllable its due propor- 
tion of sound and correct expression, so 
that the ear can readily distinguish each 
word, and every syllable that is uttered. 

A full pure tone of voice, and a good 
articulation, constitute the basis of every 
other excellence in reading and oratory. 
TESTING THE VOICE. 

To obtain a full, deep, rich tone, the stu- 
dent must resort to every conceivable ex- 
pedient for modifying the voice. When- 



19 



20 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 



ever he utters a sound that is very pleasing 
to the ear, or that impresses his mind as 
being very striking or significant, he should 
repeat it, until he can command it without 
difficulty at his pleasure. 

The most significant, impressive and 
pleasing tones of the voice can not be 
taught, or even described; the pupil, if he 
ever learns them, must find them out for 
himself, by careful, persevering practice. In 
short, he must try every plan, and resort to 
every appliance that he can command, in 
his endeavors to perfect himself in the art 
of reading and speaking with ease, ele- 
gance and impressive effect. 

STYLES OF ELOCUTION. 

One of the most important matters to be 
considered before engaging in a reading or 
declamatory exercise, is the style or man- 
ner in which the piece should be given. 

In Argument, the style must be char- 
acterized by directness and earnestness. 

In Description, the speaker must proceed 
in precisely the same manner that he would 
if he were actually describing the thing 
spoken of. 

In Narration, he must proceed as if nar- 
rating some part of his own experience. 

In Persuasion, he must use those tones, 
looks and gestures only, which he knows 
are appropriate to persuasion. 

In Exhortation, he must appeal, beseech 
and implore, as the case may require. 

In pieces of a mixed character, he must 
vary the style to suit the sentiment and 
character of the passage. 

When the reader understands the prin- 
ciples and rules which have been discussed, 
sufficiently well to be able to give a cor- 
rect, practical exemplification of each of 
them, he ought to select passages for him- 
self, suitable as exercises in cadence, pause, 
parenthesis, antithesis, climax, amplifica- 
tion, repetition and transition; also in 



pitch, force, stress, movement, quantity, in 
personation, in style, and in every rule in 
modulation and expression. 

He must especially practice in every 
kind of stress, and with every degree of 
force, from the most subdued whisper to 
the shout of enthusiastic exultation. 
GENERAL RULES FOR THE CULTIVA- 
TION" OF THE VOICE. 

The only basis upon which a full, firm, 
pure tone of voice can be formed, is deep 
and copious breathing. To do this the 
chest must be well thrown out, the head 
erect, and the throat and mouth opened so 
wide that the voice will meet with no ob- 
struction in its course. 

The great object in commencing any sys- 
tematic course of vocal culture, ought to 
be to deepen and strengthen the voice. To 
accomplish this, the student must, in his 
vocal exercises, stretch the muscles about 
the throat and the root of the tongue, and 
those that regulate the action of the lower 
jaw, so as to form the voice lower down in 
the throat than he is in the habit of doing. 
COMPASS OF THE VOICE. 

To increase the compass of the voice, de- 
claim short passages which require intense 
force on a high pitch. The pupil will dis- 
cover, after the voice has been thus taxed 
to its highest capabilities, that it will per- 
form its office with surprisingly greater 
facility and ease on the natural key, and 
in a lower pitch than he could reach be- 
fore. 

The most contracted and superficial voice 
may soon be made strong and flexible by 
this kind of exercise ; and it cannot be im- 
proved in any other way. If your voice is 
feeble, practice singing, shouting and de- 
claiming with the utmost force, at the top 
of the voice, whenever opportunity pre- 
sents itself, and it will soon acquire suffi- 
cient strength and resonance. 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 



21 



Gestures 



Gesture, to be appropriate and impres- 
sive, must be natural. When gesture has 
its origin in the mere caprice of the 
speaker, it will appear artificial and out of 
place. 

The speaker who is unable to manage his 




Dignity 

voice, is never easy and graceful in his 
gestures. 

If the voice is exercised on too high 
a key, or in a harsh, aspirated, guttural, or 
impure tone of any kind, the attitude will 
be stiff and awkward, and the gestures 
broken, irregular and difficult. But the 
speaker who has a good command of his 
voice, if he understands his subject, and is 
self-possessed, will speak with ease; and 



his gesticulation, if not always graceful, 
will be appropriate and expressive. 

Before the pupil can be easy and natural 
in his action and gesticulation, he must 
have perfect control of his voice. Any at- 
tempt, therefore, which he may give to the 
cultivation of gesture and action, before he 
has obtained a good control of his voice, 
be labor spent in vain. 



wi 



Stand or sit erect, in an easv and °race- 
ful position, and hold the book in the left 
hand on a level with the face. Look from 
your book to the audience, as often and as 
long at a time as you can, without missing 
the place. Make but few gestures, and then 
only when you are looking at your audi- 
ence. To gesticulate while your eye is 
resting upon the book is not only inappro- 
priate, but ridiculous. 

In didactic or unimpassioned discourse, 
gesticulation is not necessary, farther than 
occasionally to slightly change the position 
and movement of the hands, or to move 
the head and body sufficiently to look at 




Ridicule 



22 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 



your audience from right to left. In dis- 
course of this character the gestures and 
movements should be executed slowly, and 
as gracefully as possible. In stating un- 
important particulars, or speaking about 
matters which require a quiet, narrative 
style, the right arm and hand should be 
chiefly used. 

There are three positions in which the 
hand and arm may rest, and, by slowly 
changing from one to the other of these 
positions, stiffness and rigidity in the gest- 
ures of the arm will be avoided. 

First : Let the arm hang naturally by the 
side. 

Second : Let the hand rest upon the hip, 
the elbow thrown well backward. 




Awkward Imitation 




Discernment 

Third : Let it rest between the buttons of 
your vest, on your bosom. 

In all these positions the muscles of the 
arm and hand must be relaxed, so that the 
attitude may be, at once, easy and natural. 

Descriptive gestures are those used in 
pointing out or describing objects. The 
pupil will soon acquire skill in the use of 
these, by practicing in accordance with the 
following instructions : 

Pronounce the names of a few objects 
near you, and, as you mention the name of 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 



23 




Gracefulness 

each, extend the arm and point the fore- 
finger or the open hand, in the direction of 
the object, completing the gesture the mo- 
ment you utter the accented syllable of the 
name of the word : thus, 

1. The gentleman on my right, the lady 
on my left, the vacant chair before me, the 
books, maps and pictures all around me. 

2. High, Low, Left, Right: on pro- 
nouncing the word HIGH, raise the hand 
gracefully above the head ; on LOW, let 



it fall slowly and gracefully ; LEFT, let 
the arm and hand be extended to the left; 
on the word RIGHT, to the right. 

3. Before commencing the gesture al- 
ways let the eye glance in the direction of 
the object, concerning which you are about 
to speak. 

4. Do not move the arm and hand to 
the intended position by the shortest course, 
but describe a waving, line, and let the 
motion be rather slow, until the position is 
almost reached, then let the hand move 
quickly to its place, in completing the 
gesture. 




The Awkward Salute 



24 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 




Surprise 

When the student has obtained a toler- 
able command over his arms, hands and 
lower limbs, let him select for himself short 
passages suitable as exercises in descriptive 
gesture and action. 

I. Their swords flashed in front, 
While their plumes waved behind. 



2. His throne is on the mountain top, 

His fields the boundless air, 
And hoary hills, that proudly prop 
The skies, his dwelling are. 

3. Mountains above, earth's, ocean's 
plain below. 

4. Death in the front, destruction in 
the rear. 

5. See through this air, this ocean, and 

this earth, 
All matter quick, and bursting into 
birth. 
The hanging down of the head denotes 
shame or grief. 

The holding of it up, pride or courage. 
To nod forward implies assent. 
To toss the head back, dissent. 
The inclination of the head implies diffi- 
dence or languor. 

The head is averted, in dislike or horror. 
It leans forward, in attention. 




Coquetry 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 



25 



THE EYES. 

The eyes are raised in prayer. 

They weep, in sorrow. 

They burn, in anger. 

They are downcast or averted, in shame 
or grief. 

They are cast on vacancy, in thought. 

They are cast in various directions, in 
doubt and anxiety. 

THE ARMS. 

The placing of the hand on the head, 
indicates pain and distress. 



r — -- 






1 kI 




^\ v . 




JmrnWr 




•V ; 




pp 


mm It IP 


1-f I ,; '• 


Jjrj m I ml st-sii 


4 ' 


fm\m ' If I 


£* \ 


^Jf .{ 4 





Cheerfulness 




Sauciness 

On the eyes, shame or sorrow. 

On the hips, an injunction of silence. 

On the breast, an appeal to conscience. 

The hand is waved or nourished, in joy 
or contempt. 

Both hands are held supine, or they are 
applied, or clasped in prayer. 

Both are held prone, in blessing. 

They are clasped, or wrung in affliction. 

They are held forward, and received, in 
friendship. 

THE BODY. 

The body held erect, indicates steadi- 
ness and courage. 



26 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 




Fearlessness 

Thrown back, pride. 

Stooping forward, condescension or com- 
passion. 

Bending, reverence or respect. 

Prostration, the utmost humility or 
abasement. 



THE LOWER LIMBS. 

The firm position of the lower limbs, sig- 
nifies courage or obstinacy. 

Bended knees indicate timidity, or weak- 
ness. 

The lower limbs advance, in desire or 
courage. 

They retire, in aversion or fear. 

Start, in terror. 

Stamp, in authority or anger. 

Kneel, in submission or prayer. 

These are a few of the simple gestures 
which may be termed significant. 




Fear 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 



27 



VOCAL EXERCISE PREPARATORY TO 
READING OR SPEAKING IN PUBLIC. 

A beneficial influence is exerted on the 
voice, by the most vigorous and sustained 
exercises upon the elementary sounds, and 
by reading and declaiming with the utmost 
force consistent with purity of tone, imme- 
diately before retiring for the night. The 
organs of speech are thus rendered flexible 
for exercise on the succeeding day. Even 
an interval of only an hour or two, between 
the preliminary exercise and the subsequent 
effort, will, in most cases, afford the organs 
of speech time to rest, and resume their 
natural state. 




Anxiety 




Reproach 

The best course that can be pursued to 
prepare the voice for speaking within a 
short time, is to repeat all the elementary 
sounds several times in succession; then 
declaim a few select passages ; first, with 
ordinary force, in the middle pitch; then, 
progressively elevate the pitch and increase 
the force and the rate of utterance; lastly, 
go over them two or three times in the 
deepest and lowest tone you can reach. 



28 



THE ART OF ELOCUTION. 




Innocent Coyness 

HOW TO ACQUIRE A CONTROL OF THE 
VOICE IN EITHER HIGH OR LOW- 
KEY. 

By exercising the voice with great force, 
for a short time in a low key — paradoxical 
as it may seem — you will immediately 
afterward be able to speak with much 
greater ease upon a high key; and by ex- 
ercising the voice with great force in a very 
high pitch, you will be able within a short 
time afterward, to read or speak, with 
greater ease than before, on a low or very 
low pitch. 



NATURAL PITCH OF VOICE. 

"Every person has some pitch of voice 
in which he converses, sings and speaks 
with greater effect and facility than in any 
other. It should be an object of constant 
solicitude, with every person who desires to 
become a good speaker or reader, to find 
what is the natural pitch of his voice. 




Wonderment 




THE IDEAL POISE. 










THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL. 




National Readings 
and Declamations 




Selections suitable for New Year's, Lincoln's Birthday, Washington's Birthday, Easter, 
Arbor Day, Decoration Day, Flag Day, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas. 

1*11* i*i 



3 



THE OLD FARM KITCHEN. 



IN an old New England kitchen, where a 
warm wood fire burned bright, 
Sat honest Farmer Ketcham and his wife 

one winter night. 
The wind without was wailing, with a wild 

and woeful sound, 
And the fleecy folds of the drifting snow 

lay deep upon the ground; 
But what cared Farmer Ketcham for the 

tumult out of doors, 
For he had foddered the cattle and done the 

other chores. 
And snug in the chimney-corner in his 

easy-chair he sat, 
Silently smoking his old clay pipe and 

pooring the purring cat; 
While plying her knitting-needles, his wife 

rocked to and fro, 
Humming a hymn and dreaming a dream 

of the long ago. 

Over the old-time fire-place a rusty musket 

hung, 
And a score of strings of apples from the 

smoky ceiling swung. 
While, back in the dingy corner, the tall 

clock ticked away, 
And looked like the sagging farmhouse, 

fast falling to decay. 
The knitting fell from the woman's hands, 

the old man turned about, 
He took the pipe from his mouth and 

slowly knocked the ashes out; 
And, after thinking a moment, he said, 

with a solemn air — 



" 'Tis Christmas Eve, but the stockin's 
don't hang by the chimbley there." 

The woman sighed, and then replied, in a 

sad and faltering tone, 
"The years hev come and the years hev 

gone, and we are ag'in alone, 
An', I hev jest been thinkin' o' a Christ- 
mas long ago, 
When the winders were frosted over an' 

the ground wus white with snow; 
When we sat in the chimbley-corner, by the 

firelight's cheerful gleam, 
When our lives were full o' promise, an* 

the futur' but a dream, 
When all the rest o' our folks hed gone 

away to bed, 
An' we sat an' looked an' I listened to the 

whispered words you said, 
Till home from Benson's store came 

rollickin' brother John, 
An' a peekin' thro' the winder, saw what 

wus agoin' on; 
Then how the neighbors tattled an' talked 

all over town, 
Till you an' I were married an' quietly 

settled down. 

"While a rummagin' thro' the cobwebs in 

the garret t'other day, 
I found a pile o' broken toys in a corner 

stowed away; 
An' a lot o' leetle worn out boots a layin' 

in a heap, 
Ez they used to lay on the kitchen floor 



31 



32 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



when the boys hed gone to sleep. 
I looked at the worn-out trundle-bed, an' 

the cradle long laid by, 
An' a leanin' ag'in the chimbley there, I 

couldn't help but cry — 
Fur the faces o' my children came back to 

me once more, 
An' I almost heard the patter o' their feet 

, upon the floor. 
I tho't o' the'r happy voices an' the leetle 

prayers they said, 
Ez they used to gather round me when 

'twas time to go to bed. 

"Of all the earthly treasures we prize in 

this world below, 
The ones we love the fondest are the first 

to fade and go. 
Of all the beautiful children that came to 

our fireside, 
The one we loved most dearly wus our 

leetle girl that died. 
How calm in her leetle coffin she looked in 

her last repose, 
Ez sweet ez the fairest lily, ez pure ez a 

tuberose. 
An' I can well remember the sadness o' 

the day, 
When my heart wus well nigh broken ez 

they carried her away. 

"The oldest o' our children wus a proud 

and han'some boy, 
He wus his father's fondest hope an' his 

mother's pride an' joy, 
I used to play with his chubby hands an' 

kiss his leetle feet, 
An' wonder ef ever a babe wus born more 

beautiful an' sweet; 
An' many a night, by candle light, when he 

was snug in bed, 
I've patched his leetle clo's with weary 

hands an* an achin' head. 
We sent him away to college; he did un- 
commonly well, 



Till he went to live in the city, an' married 

a city belle — 
O' all our earthly trials; o' all our worldly 

care; 
The cold neglect o' a thankless child is the 

hardest o' all to bear. 
His wife "is a woman with only high notions 

in her head; 
She couldn't well knit a stockin', nor bake 

a loaf of bread. 
'She plays on the grand pianner, nor works 

with her lily hands, 
An' she talks in a foreign lingo that no 

one understands; 
Whenever I go to see her, I tell you it 

makes me smile 
To see how it hurts her feelin's to look at 

my country style. 

"The youngest o' our livin' boys I never 

could understand; 
He didn't take to le'rnin' no more'n a fish 

to land, 
He wus wayward an' hard to govern, not 

altogether bad, 
He wus firm, an' proud, an' set in his ways, 

but not a vicious lad. 
An' somehow we couldn't keep him quite 

under our control, 
But I know that he had an honest heart, 

an' a true an' noble soul, 
An' a mother's prayers will go with him 

wherever he may be ; 
God keep him safe an' bring him home in 

His good time to me. 

"I miss our children's voices, fur all hev 

gone away — 
One hez gone to the better land, an' the 

rest hev gone astray. 
I wonder ef up in Heaven, where all is 

bright an' fair, 
Ef we will meet our children an' they will 

love us there ?" 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



33 



There was a rap at the outside door, the 

old folks gave a start; 
The woman sprang from her rocking-chair 

with a flutter at her heart; 
The door swung widely open and banged 

against the wall, 
And into the farmhouse kitchen strode a 

stranger dark and tall. 
The mother looked at his bearded face a 

moment in surprise; 
She saw a quiver about his mouth and a 

glad look in his eyes; 
She lifted up her hands to Heaven, she 

uttered a cry of joy, 



And bowed her white head lovingly on the 
breast of her wayward boy. 

The red flame glowed upon the hearth, the 

beech logs cracked and steamed; 
And on the floor and time-worn walls the 

firelight glowed and gleamed ; 
That old New England kitchen had never 

been more bright 
Than it was to Farmer Ketcham and his 
wife that winter night. 
— From "Original Recitations/' by 

Eugene I. Hall. 
By special permission of the Author. 



tgfr &£• *2r> 

A BIRTHDAY ADDRESS. 

(Suitable for recitation at any birthday party.) 



GENTLEMEN :— Since nobody wishes 
to die everybody must be glad he 
was born. It is a good thing to have a 
birthday, but its pleasure is increased when 
your friends in this substantial way indi- 
cate their joy that you came into the world. 
Artemus Ward said: "It would have been 
ten dollars in the pocket of Jefferson 
Davis if he had never been born." But 
the only limitation upon natal festivities is 
the necessity of making a speech. The 
difficulty increases when the occasion has 
called together such a good company. 

It is an indisputable fact that the whole 
people of the United States were never so 
powerful, or so prosperous, or collectively 
and individually possessed so much in 'op- 
portunity, in liberty, in education, in em- 
ployment, in wages, in men wha from 
nothing have become powers in the com- 
munity, and boys who from poverty have 
secured education and attained compe- 
tence, as to-day. A young man who can 
pay a dollar for a dinner and do no in- 
justice to his family has started success- 



fully in his career. There is scarcely one 
now present who cannot remember the dif- 
ficulty, the anxieties and the work of se- 
curing his first surplus dollar. Everyone 
of you from that dollar has, because of 
American conditions, and a true concep- 
tion of American liberty, become a leader 
in the pulpit, at the bar, in medicine, in 
journalism, in art, in the management of 
industries, in the work of firms and cor- 
porations and in business of every kind. 
This assemblage — and its like can be gath- 
ered in every state, county, city and vil- 
lage in our country — illustrates that true 
spirit of commercialism which inspires am- 
bition and makes a career; that true de- 
velopment of American manhood which is 
ever striving for something better in its 
material conditions, which has time for the 
work of the church, for politics, for the 
public service, for the improvement of the 
home and the pleasures of and for the fam- 
ily. 

As we advance in life we appreciate 
more day by day the. value of time. 



34 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



With every revolution of the earth there 
is less left. We must economize it. We 
who are active in affairs and must meet 
many people find out who are the enemies 
and who the friends of our time. The 
scatter-brain dissipates and the sure-footed 
man conserves it. The late Leopold 
Morse, while a member of Congress, was 
entertained at a big house on Fifth avenue. 
A guest said: "Delighted to see you, 
Morse. Where are you stopping?" Morse 
replied: "At the St. Cloud Hotel." His 
friend said: "For Heaven's sake, Morse, 
don't do that again; that's the San Clou." 
The next day Morse went into his bank- 
er's, who said: "Glad to see you, Morse; 
where are you stopping?" Morse said, "At 
the San Clou." The banker said: "Come 
off your perch. That may do in Boston, 
but here it's plain English, St. Cloud." 
Morse, much distressed, was stopped on 
Wall street soon after by an acquaintance, 
who said: "Morse, I want to come and see 
you this evening; where are you stopping?" 
Morse answered: "Hanged if I know." 
Morse should have been sure of himself 
and stuck to it. The man who ought to be 
killed after the first half hour is the one who, 
having made an engagement, uses thirty 
minutes in developing a matter in which 
he knows you are interested and then pro- 
ceeds, having gained, as he thinks, your 
confidence, to exploit the scheme for which 
he came. I always turn that man down. 

The sure-footed man is a benefactor. 
In the pulpit he gives your something to 
take home to think about and talk over 
at the Sunday dinner; at the bar he makes 
the jury in a short time think his way and 
the judge is influenced by his directness 
and lucidity. He states his business 
proposition to you so quickly and so clearly 
that you know instantly whether you can 
afford to embark in it or not. He dis- 



misses his board of directors with a ten- 
minute statement which reveals to them 
the exact condition and true prospects of 
the company. He tells a story so that the 
point punctures and delights you without 
giving you the horrors of knowing it long 
before he is through. You sit beside him 
if you can at dinner, you select him for 
your companion in travel, you take him 
into your business if he is free and you 
make him your executor in your will. 

My friends, we pass this way but once. 
We cannot retrace our steps to any pre- 
ceding milestone. Every time the clock 
strikes, it is both the announcement of the 
hour upon which we are entering and the 
knell of the one which is gone. Each night 
memory balances the books and we know 
before we sleep whether the result is on 
the right or the wrong side of our account. 
In some measure we can meet the injunc- 
tion of the poet who said: 
"Think that day lost whose low descend- 
ing sun, 
Views from thy hand no noble action 
done." 
There is no cant in this sentiment. The 
noble action does not mean necessarily 
anything in the realms of romance or hero- 
ism. It may be the merest commonplace 
in business or association, a word of sym- 
pathy, kindness or encouragement, a little 
help sorely needed and not felt by the 
giver, but if it has shed one beam of bright- 
ness into the life of another the dividend is 
earned. The older we grow the more we 
realize that life is worth the living. We 
think too little of the fun there is in it: We 
are too parsimonious of laughter. We do 
not appreciate as we ought the man or the 
woman who can make us forget while we 
are amused. We cannot help the past and 
that man is a fool who lives in it. To-day 
is a better day than yesterday, but to-mor- 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



35 



row is the land of promise. Let us walk 
through our pathways be they rugged or 
smooth, believing in Browning's beautiful 
lines: 



The earth is crammed with Heaven, 
And every common bush afire with God, 
But only he who sees takes off his shoes. 
— Chauncey M. Depew. 



«e9* t5* c£* 

THANKSGIVING IN MANY LANDS. 

And an orange a minute as big as their 



THERE'S Thanksgiving turkey for you, 
little boy, 
But 'round the North Pole, where it's 
quiet, 
They're dining to-day on a slice of roast 

whale 
With fricasseed snowballs and polar bear's 

tail, 
And the milk is ice cream when it reaches 
the pail, 
For the cows have pistache in their diet. 
Just listen to that, little Johnny! 

There's a bonny plum pudding for you, 
little boy, 
But the little boys 'round the equator 
Have cocoanut stew and a salad of dates, 



pates, 
And a little brown monkey to hand round 
the plates, 
And bananas are used for potater! 
Just think about that, little Johnny! 

There's mince pie and doughnuts for you, 
little boy, 
But abroad all the children are living 
On wonderful dishes, I couldn't say what, 
So queer and so spicy, so cold and so 
hot! 
But the best thing of all doesn't fall to their 
lot— 
For they haven't got any Thanksgiving! 
You wouldn't like that, little Johnny! 
— Juliet Wilbor Tompkins. 



t&& f&& t£& 

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 

(The custom of decorating the graves, both of Federal and Confederate soldiers on Decora- 
tion Day, makes this recitation peculiarly appropriate for Decoration Day exercises.) 



BY the flow of the inland river, 
Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave-grass 
quiver, 
Asleep in the ranks of the dead: — 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the one, the Blue, 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory, 



In the dusk of eternity meet: — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 

Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours, 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers, 

Alike for the friend and the foe: — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the roses, the Blue, 



36 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



Under the Hires, the Gray. 

So, with an equal splendor, 

The morning sun-rays fall, 
With a touch impartially tender, 
On the blossoms blooming for all: 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer calleth, 
On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain: — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 



G 



WATCHING THE 

OOD old days — dear old days 

heart beat high and 



When my 
bold— 
When the things of earth seemed full of 
mirth 
And the future a haze of gold! 
Oh, merry was I that winter night, 

And gleeful our little one's din, 
And tender the grace of my darling's face 

As we watched the New Year in. 
But a voice — a spectre's that mocked at 
love — 
Came out of the yonder hall; 
"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 'twas the solemn 
clock 
That ruefully croaked to all. 

Yet what knew we of the griefs to be 

In the year we longed to greet? 
Love — love was the theme of the sweet, 

sweet dream 
I fancied might never fleet! 



Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
The generous deed was done; 
In the storm of the years that are fading, 
No braver battle was won: — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

W T aiting the judgment day; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war cry sever, 
Or the winding rivers be red; 
They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our 
dead! 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



t5* tf5* **?* 



NEW YEAR IN. 

But the spectre stood in that yonder 
gloom, 
And these were the words it spake: 
''Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — and they seemed 
to mock 
A heart about to break. 

'Tis New Year's eve, and again I watch 

In the old familiar place, 
And I'm thinking again of that old time 
when 

I looked on a dear one's face. 
Never a little one hugs my knee, 

And I hear no gleeful shout — 
I am sitting alone by the old hearth-stone, 

Watching the old year out. 
But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom 

That solemnly calls to me; 
"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — for so the clock 

Tells of a life to be; 
"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — 'tis so the clock 

Tells of eternity, — Eugene Field. 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



37 



GARFIELD'S TRIBUTE TO HIS FALLEN COMRADES. 



IF silence is ever golden, it must be here, 
beside the graves of fifteen thousand 
men, whose lives were more significant 
than speech, and whose death was a poem, 
the music of which can never be sung. 
With words we make promises, plight 
faith, praise virtue. Promises may not be 
kept, plighted faith may be broken, and 
vaunted virtue be only the cunning mark 
of vice. 

We do not know one promise these men 
made, one pledge they gave, one word 
they spoke; but we do know they summed 
up and perfected by one supreme act 
the highest virtue of men and citizens. 
For love of country they accepted death, 
and thus resolved all doubts and made im- 
mortal their patriotism and their virtue. 
For the noblest man that lives there still 
remains a conflict. He must still with- 
stand the assaults of time and fortune; 
must still be assailed with temptations be- 
fore which lofty natures have fallen. But 
with these, the conflict ended, the victory 
was won, when death stamped on them the 
great seal of heroic character, and closed 
a record which years can never blot. 

At the beginning of the Christian era 
an imperial circus stood on the summit of 
what is now known as the Vatican Mount 



in Rome. There gladiator slaves died for 
the sport of Rome, and wild beasts fought 
with wilder men. In that arena, a Gali- 
lean fisherman gave up his life, a sacrifice 
for his faith. No human-life was ever so 
nobly avenged. On that spot was reared 
the proudest Christian temple ever built 
by. human hands. As the traveler descends 
the Apennines, he sees the dome of St. Pe- 
ter's rising above the desolate Campagna, 
and the dead city, long before the seven 
hills and ruined palaces appear to his view. 
The fame of the dead fisherman has out- 
lived the glory of the Eternal City. 

Seen from the western slope of our 
Capitol, this spot is not unlike the Vatican 
Mount. A few years ago the soil beneath 
our feet was watered with the tears of 
slaves. Yonder proud Capitol awakened 
no pride, inspired no hope. The face of 
the goddess was turned toward the sea, 
and not toward them. But thanks be to 
God, this arena of slavery is a scene of 
violence no longer! This will be forever 
the sacred mountain of our Capitol. Here 
is our temple. Its pavement is the 
sepulcher of heroic hearts; its dome, the 
bending- heaven; its - altar candles, the 
watching stars. 

— James A. Garfield. 



10* i&fr ^* 



THE MANGER OF BETHLEHEM. 



THERE'S a song in the air! 
There's a star in the sky! 
There's a mothers deep prayer 
And a baby's low cry! 
And the star rains its fire while the Beau- 
tiful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a 
King. 



There's a tumult of joy 
O'er the wonderful birth, 
: L For the virgin's sweet boy 
Is the Lord of the earth, 
Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beau- 
tiful sing, ■ 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a 
King! 



38 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



In the light of that star 

Lie the ages impearled; 
And that song from afar 
Has swept over the world. 
Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful 

sing, 
In the homes of the nations that Jesus is 
King! 



We rejoice in the light, 
And we echo the song 
That comes down through the night 
From the heavenly throng. 
Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they 

bring, 
And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and 
King. 



t&& *2& t&* 



MEMORIAL DAY. 



THE cycling years again have brought 
To us, Memorial Day; 
The gallant men who bravely fought 

For us are old and gray. 
Their numbers, year by year, grow less, 

And more are laid away, 
Where we with flowers their graves may 
dress, 
On each Memorial Day. 



Then bring the blossoms fair and sweet, 

To deck each grass-grown bed, 
While reverently we all repeat: 

"Here lie our honored dead, 
Whose memory we will all revere 

Till time shall pass away, 
And sacred keep with every year 

A new Memorial Day." 

— Emma Shaw. 



i£fr i2fc *£& 



SIMON SOGG'S THANKSGIVING 



LET Earth give thanks," the deacon 
said, 
And then the proclamation read. 

"Give thanks fer what an' what about?" 
Asked Simon Soggs when church was out. 
"Give thanks fer what? I don't see why; 
The rust got in an' spiled my rye, 
And hay wan't half a crop, and corn 
All wilted down and looked forlorn. 
The bugs jest gobbled my pertaters, • 
The what-you-call-em lineaters, 
And gracious! when you come to wheat, 
There's more than all the world can eat; 
Onless a war should interfere, 
Crops won't bring half a price this year; 
I'll hev to give 'em away, I reckon!" 
"Good for the poor!" exclaimed the 
deacon. 



"Give thanks fer what?" asked Simon 

Soggs. 
"Fer th' freshet carryin' off my logs? 
Fer Dobbin goin' blind? Fer five 
Uv my best cows, that was alive 
Afore the smashin' railroad come 
And made it awful troublesome? 
Fer that hay stack the lightnin' struck 
And burnt to ashes? — thund'rin luck! 
For ten dead sheep?" sighed Simon Soggs. 
The Deacon said, "You've got yer hogs!" 

"Give thanks? and Jane and baby sick? 
I e'enmost wonder if ole Nick 
Ain't runnin' things!" 

The deacon said, 
"Simon! yer people might be dead!" 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



39 



"Give thanks!" said Simon Soggs again. 

"Jest look at what a fix we're in! 

The country's rushin' to the dogs 

At race horse speed!" said Simon Soggs. 

"Rotten all through — in every State, — 

Why, ef we don't repudiate, 

We'll hev to build, fer big and small, 

A poor-house that'll hold us all. 

All round the crooked whisky still 

Is runnin' like the Devil's mill; 

Give thanks? How mad it makes me feel, 

To think how office-holders steal! 

The taxes paid by you and me 

Is four times bigger'n they should be; 

The Fed'ral Gov'ment's all askew, 

The ballot's sech a mockery, too! 



Some votes too little, some too much, 
Some not at all — it beats the Dutch! 
And now no man knows what to do, 
Or how is how, or who is who. 
Deacon! corruption's sure to kill! 
This 'glorious Union' never will, 
I'll bet a continental cent, 
Elect another President! 
Give thanks fer what, I'd like to know?" 

The deacon answered, sad and low, 
"Simon! It fills me with surprise, • 
Ye don't see where yer duty lies; 
Kneel right straight down, in all the muss, 
And thank God that it ain't no wuss!" 
—W. A. Croffut. 



c5* <<5* c5* 



JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS. 

(Recitation for a boy from seven to ten.) 



FATHER calls me William, sister calls 
me Will, 
Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call 

me Bill. 
Mighty glad I ain't a girl — ruther be a 

boy, 
Without them sashes, curls, an' things 

that's worn by Fauntleroy! 
Love to chawnk green apples an' go swim- 

min' in the lake — 
Hate to take the castor-ile they give for 

belly-ache ! 
'Most all the time, the whole year round, 

there ain't no flies on me, 
But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I 

kin be! 

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him 

on the cat;. 
First thing she knows she doesn't know 

where she is at! 
Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes 

out to slide, 



'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all 

hook a ride, 
But sometimes when the grocery man is 

worrited an' cross, 
He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups 

up his hoss, 
An' then I laff an' holler: "O, ye never 

teched me!" 
But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I 

kin be! 

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I get 

to be a man, 
I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother 

Dan, 
As was et up by the cannibuls that lives 

in Ceylon's He, 
Where every prospeck pleases, an' only 

man is vile! 
But gran'ma she has never been to see a 

Wild West show, 
Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or 

else I guess she'd know 



40 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good 

enough for me! 
Excep' just 'fore Christmas, when I'm 

good as I kin be! 

And then old Sport he hangs around, so 

solemn-like an' still, 
His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the 

matter, little Bill?" 
The old. cat sneaks down off her perch an' 

wonders what's become 
Of them two enemies of hern that used to 

make things hum! 
But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly 

to biz, 
That mother says to father: "How im- 
proved our Willie is!" 
But father, havin' been a boy hisself, 

suspicions me 



When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good 
as I kin be! 

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of 

candies, cakes, an' toys, 
Was made, they say, for proper kids an' 

not for naughty boys; 
So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' 

mind yer p's and q's, 
An' don't bust out your pantaloons, and 

don't wear out your shoes ; 
Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" 

to the men, 
An' when they's company, don't pass yer 

plate for pie again; 
But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to 

see upon the tree, 
Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin 

be! — Eugene Field. 



t2& t<7* ?<5* 



OUR HEROIC DEAD. 



O 



SUN, subdue your splendor; 
O birds, forget your mirth; 
O robe of mist so tender, 

Enshroud a lifeless earth. 
O sea renew your mourning; 

O winds, a requiem play; 
O heart, with grief's intoning, 
December wrest from May. 
A nation weeps 
And vigil keeps 
O'er her heroic dead. 



O sun, unsheath your lances; 

Fling out your rainbow arch; 
O music that entrances, 

Sound a triumphal march. 
O flag by heaven's portals 

Unfurl your gleaming bars; 
For there earth's dear immortals 
Forever placed your stars. 
A nation's praise 
Its tribute pays 
To her heroic dead. 



<<5* *2& <&* 

MISTLETOE. 



WHEN on the chandelier I saw 
The mistletoe and holly, 
The one conclusion I could draw 
Led me straight on to folly. 

For Marjory, with cheeks aglow 
And lips, each one a berry, 



Was smiling at the mistletoe 
A smile peculiar, very. 

I watched them both, and when above 
Her head the green leaves fluttered, 

I caught and kissed the girl I love 
And something tender uttered. 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



41 



She blushed, of course; the deed was done. 

Quoth she: "Since kissing's pleasant, 
I'll give you just another one, 

To be your Christmas present." 



Good lovers all, take note of this, 
The Christmas prank of Cupid. 

A spray of mistletoe amiss 
Were nothing short of stupid. 



t£fc t&& fcT* 



DECORATION DAY. 

AGAIN with reverent hands we strew 
Our heroes' graves with flowers of 
spring; 
How swift doth time's increasing flow, 
These hallowed days around us bring! 



And as we stand in silence near 
Their sacred dust, a gift we lay 



Upon each loyvly altar here, 

That shall not with the flowers decay! 



For grateful memory twines anew 
Her offering with the garlands fair, 

Laid where long sleep the brave and true, 
Whose honored dust we shield with 
care. 



^5* <^* t^* 



THE MEANING OF THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

(Recitation for a boy.) 



THE American flag means, then, all 
that the fathers meant in the Rev- 
olutionary War; it means all that the 
Declaration of Independence meant; it 
means all that the Constitution of a peo- 
ple, organizing for justice, for liberty, and 
for happiness, meant. 

The American flag carries American 
ideas, American history, and American 
feeling. 

Beginning with the colonies and com- 
ing down to our time, in its sacred her- 



aldry, in its glorious 



it has 



gathered and stored chiefly this supreme 
idea: Divine Right of Liberty in Man. 

Every color means liberty, every thread 
means liberty, every form of star and beam 
of light means liberty — liberty through 
law, and laws for liberty. Accept it, then, 
in all its fullness of meaning. It is not a 
painted rag. It is a whole national history 
It is the Constitution. It is the Govern- 
ment. It is the emblem of the sovereignty 
of the people. It is the Nation. — From a 
speech by Henry Ward Beecher. 



t5* c<5* **?* 



A GOOD COUNTRY FOR ALL. 

(For a very little girl. The speaker should wear the national colors, either combined in a 
dress or as decorations to a white dress.) 



I WEAR these three colors to-day, 
The beautiful, red, white and blue, 
Because 'tis the Fourth of July, 
And I thought I'd celebrate too. 

I know that our country began 

(Though I'm sure I cannot tell why), 



One morning so long, long ago, 
And that was the Fourth of July. 

But one thing for certain and sure 

I've found out, although I'm so small, 

'Tis a country good to be in 

For little folks, big folks, and all. 



42 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



THERE is dignity in toil — in toil of the 
hand as well as toil of the head — in 
toil to provide for the bodily wants of an 
individual life, as well as in toil to promote 
some enterprise of world-wide fame. All 
labor that tends to supply man's wants, to 
increase man's happiness, to elevate man's 
nature — in a word, all labor that is honest 
— is honorable too. Labor clears the for- 
est, and drains the morass, and makes the 
"wilderness rejoice and blossom as the 
rose." Labor drives the plow, and scatters 
the seeds, and reaps the harvest, and 
grinds the corn, and converts it into bread, 
the staff of life. Labor, tending the pas- 
tures and sweeping the waters, as well as 
cultivating the soil, provides with daily 
sustenance the nine hundred millions of 
the family of man. Labor gathers the gos- 
samer web of the caterpillar, the cotton 
from the field, and the fleece from the flock, 
and weaves it into raiment soft and warm 
and beautiful, the purple robe of the prince 
and the gray gown of the peasant being 
alike its handiwork. Labor moulds the 
brick, and splits the slate, and quarries the 
stone and shapes the column, and rears 
not only the humble cottage, but the 
gorgeous palace, and the tapering spire, 
and the stately dome. Labor, diving deep 
into the solid earth, brings up its long- 
hidden stores of coal to feed ten thousand 
furnaces, and in millions of homes to defy 
the winter's cold. 

Labor explores the rich veins of deeply- 
buried rocks, extracting the gold and silver, 
the copper and tin. Labor smelts the iron, 
and moulds it into a thousand shapes for 
use and ornament, from the massive pillar 
to the tiniest needle, from the ponderous 
anchor to the wire gauze, from the mighty 



THE DIGNITY OF LABOR. 

(An oration for Labor Day.) 

fly-wheel of the steam engine to the pol- 



ished purse-ring or the glittering bead. 
Labor hews down the gnarled oak, and 
shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and 
guides it over the deep, plunging through 
the billows, and wrestling with the tem- 
pest, to bear to our shores the produce of 
every clime. Labor, laughing at difficul- 
ties, spans majestic rivers, carries viaducts 
over marshy swamps, suspends bridges 
over deep ravines, pierces the solid moun- 
tain with the dark tunnel, blasting rocks 
and filling hollows, and while linking to- 
gether with its iron but loving grasp all 
nations of the earth, verifying, in a literal 
sense, the ancient prophecy, "Every valley 
shall be exalted, and every mountain and 
hill shall be brought low;" labor draws 
forth its delicate iron thread, and stretch- 
ing it from city to city, from province to 
province, through mountains and beneath 
the sea, realizes more than fancy ever 
fabled, while it constructs a chariot on 
which speech may outstrip the wind, and 
compete with lightning, for the telegraph 
flies as rapidly as thought itself. 

Labor, the mighty magician, walks forth 
into a region uninhabited and waste; he 
looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its 
desolation, then waving his wonder-work- 
ing wand, those dreary valleys smile with 
golden harvests; those barren mountain- 
slopes are clothed with foliage ; the furnace 
blazes; the anvil rings; the busy wheel 
whirls round; the town appears; the temple 
of religion rears its lofty front; a forest of 
masts rises from the harbor. On every 
side are heard the sounds of industry and 
gladness. 

Labor achieves grander victories, it 
weaves more durable trophies, it holds 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS 



-13 



wider sway than the conqueror. His name 
becomes tainted and his monuments crum- 
ble; but labor converts his red battlefields 



into gardens, and erects monuments 
significant of better things. 

— Anonymous. 



t&* tO& fcT* 



HAVE YOU PLANTED A TREE? 

(For Arbor Day.) 



WHAT do we plant when we plant the 
tree? 
We plant the ship, which will cross the sea, 
We plant the mast to carry the sails; 
We plant the planks to withstand the gales, 
The keel, the keelson, and beam and knee; 
We plant the ship when we plant the tree. 

What do we plant when we plant the tree? 
We plant the houses for you and me; 
We plant the rafters, the shingles, the 
floors, 



We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, 
The beams and siding, all parts that be; 
We plant the house when we plant the tree. 



What do we plant when we plant the tree? 
A thousand things that we daily see: 
We plant the spire that out-towers 

crag; 
We plant the staff for country's flag; 
We plant the shade from the hot 

free ; — 
We plant all these when we plant the tree. 



the 



sun 



«f5* ^5* «<5* 



THE BROWNIE'S CHRISTMAS. 

(Imagine this a real occurrence, and yourself the giver.) 



THE Brownie who lives in the forest — 
Oh, the Christmas bells they ring! 
He has done for the farmer's children 
Full many a kindly thing: 

When their cows were lost in the gloam- 
ing 

He has driven them safely home; 
He has led their bees to the flowers, 

To fill up their golden comb ; 

At her spinning the little sister 
Had napped till the setting sun — 

She awoke, and the kindly Brownie 
Had gotten it neatly done; 

Oh, the Christmas bells they are ringing! 

The mother she was away, 
And the Brownie 'd played with the baby 

And tended it all the day; 



The Brownie who lives in the forest, 

Oh, the Christmas bells they ring! 
He has done for the farmer's children 
Full many a kindly thing. 

'Tis true that his face they never, 
For all their watching, could see; 

Yet who else did the kindly service, 
I pray, if it were not he? 

But the poor little friendly Brownie, 

His life was a weary thing; 
For never had he been in holy church 

And heard the children sing; 

And never had he had a Christmas; 

Nor had bent in prayer his knee; 
He had lived for a thousand years, 

And all weary-worn was he. 



44 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



'Or that was the story the children 
Had heard at their mother's side; 

And together they talked it over, 
One merry Christmas-tide. 

The pitiful little sister 

With her braids of paly gold, 
And the little elder brother, 

And the darling five-year-old, 

All stood in the western window — 
'Twas toward the close of day — 

And they talked about the Brownie 
While resting from their play. 

'The Brownie, he has no Christmas," 

The dear little sister said, 
And a-shaking as she spoke 

Her glossy, yellow head; 

"The Brownie, he has no Christmas; 

While so many gifts had we, 
To the floor last night they bended 

The boughs of the Christmas-tree." 

Then the little elder brother, 

He spake up in his turn, 
With both of his blue eyes beaming, 

While his cheeks began to burn: 

"Let us do up for the Brownie 

A Christmas bundle now, 
And leave it in the forest pathway 

Where the great oak branches bow. 

"We'll mark it, 'For the Brownie,' 
And 'A Merry Christmas Day!' 

And sure will he be to find it, 
For he goeth home that way!' " 

Then the tender little sister 
With her braids of paly gold, 

And the little elder brother, 
And the darling five-year-old, 

Tied up in a little bundle 

Some toys, with a loving care, 



And marked it, "For the Brownie," 
In letters large and fair, 

And "We wish a Merry Christmas!" 
And then, in the dusk, the three 

Went to the wood and left it 
Under the great oak tree. 

While the farmer's fair little children 
Slept sweet on that Christmas night, 

Two wanderers through the forest 
Came in the clear moonlight. 

And neither one was the Brownie, 

But sorry were both as he; 
And their hearts, with each fresh footstep, 

Were aching steadily. 

A slender man with an organ 
Strapped on by a leathern band, 

And a girl with a tambourine 
A-holding close to his hand. 

And the girl with the tambourine, 

Big sorrowful eyes she had; 
In the cold white wood she shivered, 

In her ragged raiment clad. 

"And what is there here to do?" she said; 

"I'm froze i' the light o' the moon! 
Shall we play to these sad old forest trees 

Some merry and jigging tune? 

"And, father, you know it is Christmas- 
time, 

And had we staid i' the town 
And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees, 

A gift might have fallen down! 

"You cannot certainly know it would not: 
I'd ha' gone right under the tree! 

Are you sure that none o' the Christmases 
Were meant for you and me?" 

"These dry dead leaves," he answered her, 
sad, 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



45 



"Which the forest casteth down, 
Are more than you'd get from a Christmas 
tree 
In the merry and thoughtless town. 

"Though to-night be the Christ's own 
birthday night, 

And all the world hath grace, 
There is not a home in all the world 

Which holdeth for us a place." 

Slow plodding adown the forest path, 
"And now, what is this?" he said; 

And the children's bundle he lifted up, 
And "For the Brownie," read, 

And "We wish a Merry Christmas Day!" 
"Now if this be done," said he, 

"Somewhere in the world perhaps there, is 
A place for you and me!" 

And the bundle he opened softly: 
"This is children's tender thought; 

Their own little Christmas presents 
They have to the Brownie brought. 

"If there liveth such tender pity 
Toward a thing so dim and low, 



There is kindness sure remaining 
Of which I did not know. 

"Oh, children, there's never a Brownie — 

That sorry, uncanny thing; 
But nearest and next are the homeless 

When the Christmas joy-bells ring." 

Out laughed the little daughter, 
And she gathered the toys with glee: 

"My Christmas present has fallen! 
This oak was my Christmas-tree!" 

Then away they went through the forest, 
The wanderers, hand in hand; 

And the snow, they were both so merry, 
It glinted like the golden sand. 

Down the forest the elder brother, 
In the morning clear and cold, 

Came leading the little sister 
And the darling five-year-old. 

"Oh," he cries, "He's taken the bundle!" 

As carefully round he peers; 
"And the Brownie has gotten a Christmas 

After a thousand years!" 



«*5* t2& ^* 



THE THREE HOLIDAYS. 

(For a girl and two boys.) 



FIRST BOY. 

OF all the days of all the year," 
Cried loyal Freddy Bly, 
"The very splendid-est of all 

Comes early in July. 
Think of the fun! the glorious noise! 
That is the day — at least for boys." 

SECOND BOY. 
"Of all the days of all the year," 

Said little Robin Gray, 
"The very best, I do believe, 



Will be Thanksgiving day. 
A fellow has such things to eat! 
Thanksgiving day cannot be beat." 

GIRL. 

"Of all the days of all the year," 

Sang pretty Nan, "remember 
The dearest, happiest and best 

Is coming in December. 
What girl or boy, north, east, south, west, 
But knows that Christmas day is best?'' 
— Annie L. Hannah. 



46 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 



RING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 



Ring out the grief that saps the mind 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

And sweeter manners, purer laws. 



t£r* v5* v5* 



A NEW YEAR'S TALK. 



HERE I am," said the New Year, 
popping his head in at the door. 

"Oh! there you are, eh?" replied the Old 
Year. "Come in and let me have a look 
at you, and shut the door after you, 
please!" 

The New Year stepped lightly in, and 
closed the door carefully. 

"Frosty night," he said. "Fine and 
clear, though. I have had a delightful 
journey." 

"Humph!" said the Old Year. "I don't 
expect to find it delightful, with this rheu- 
matism racking my bones. A long, cold, 
drive, I call it; but to be sure, I thought it 
pleasant when I was your age, youngster. 
Is the sleigh waiting?" 

"Yes," replied the other. "But there is 
no hurry. Wait a bit, and tell me how 
matters are in these parts." 

"So, so!" the Old Year answered, shak- 
ing his head. "They might be better, and 
yet I suppose they might be worse, too. 
They were worse before I came; much 
worse, too. I have done a great deal. Now 
I expect you, my boy, to follow my ex- 
ample, and be a good year all the way 
through." 

"I shall do my best," said the New Year, 



"depend upon it! And now tell me a little 
what there is to do." 

"In the first place," replied the other, 
"you have the weather to attend to. To 
be sure, you have a clerk to help you in 
that, but he is not always to be depended 
upon; there is a great deal of work in the 
department. The seasons have a way of 
running into each other, and getting 
mixed, if you don't keep a sharp lookout 
on them; and the months are a trouble- 
some, unruly set. Then you must be care- 
ful how to turn on wet and dry weather; 
your reputation depends in a great meas- 
ure on that. But you must not expect to 
satisfy everybody, for that is impossible. 
If you try to please the farmers the city 
people will complain; and if you devote 
yourself to the cities, the country people 
will call you all manner of names. I had 
rather devote myself to apples and that 
sort of a thing; everybody speaks of me as 
'a great apple year;' 'a glorious year for 
grapes!' and so on. That is very gratify- 
ing to me. And one thing I want you to 
do very carefully; that is, to watch the 
leaves that are turned." 

"I thought Autumn attended to that sort 
of thing," said his companion. 




Photo by Eyron, N. Y. 



TELLING MOTHER. 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



49 



"I don't mean leaves of trees," said the 
Old Year. ''But at the beginning of a year, 
half the people in the world say, 'I am go- 
ing to turn over a new leaf!' meaning they 
intend to behave themselves better in vari- 
ous respects. As a rule, leaves do not stay 
turned over. I know a great many little 
boys who promised me to turn over a new 
leaf in regard to tearing their clothes and 
losing their jack-knives, and bringing 
mud into the house on their boots, and lit- 
tle girls who were going to keep their 
bureau drawers tidy and their buttons 
sewed on. But I haven't seen much im- 
provement in most of them. Indeed, what 
can you expect of the children, when the 
parents set them the example? Why, there 
is a man in this neighborhood who has 
turned over a new leaf in the matter of 
smoking every year since 1868, and after 
the first week of each New Year he smokes 
like a chimney all the rest of the year." 

"What is his name?" inquired the New 
Year, taking out his note-book. 

"His name is Smith — John Smith/' said 
the Old Year. 'There are a great many 



of them, and all the rest are probably as 
bad as the particular one I mention, so you 
need not be too particular." 

"I'll attend to it," said the New Year. 
"Any other suggestions?" 

"Well," said the Old Year, smiling, "I 
have never found that young people, or 
young years, were very apt to profit by 
good advice. You must go your own way 
after all. Don't start any new inventions — 
there have been quite enough lately. 
Above all, take care of the children, and 
give them all the good weather you can 
conscientiously. And now," he added, ris- 
ing slowly and stiffly from his seat by the 
fire, "the horses are getting impatient, and 
my time is nearly up, so I start on my long 
drive. You will find everything in pretty 
good shape, I think, though, of course, you 
will think me an old fogy as perhaps I am. 
Well! well! good-bye, my boy! Good luck 
to you! And whenever you hear my name 
mentioned, try to put in a good word for 

old " (here give the number of the 

year). 

— Laura E. Richard. 



1&& tO& t£& 



LABOR. 

(Recitation for Labor Day.) 



PAUSE not to dream of the future be- 
fore us; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that 
come o'er us; 
Hark how creation's deep, musical chorus, 

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! 
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
More and more richly the rose heart keeps 
glowing, 
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 



"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; 

"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ring- 
ing: 

Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing 
Speaks to thy soul from out nature's 
great heart. 

From the dark cloud flows the life-giving 
shower; 

From the rough sod blows the soft-breath- 
ing flower; 

From the small insect, the rich coral 
bower; . 



50 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his 
part. 

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet 

us, 
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 
Rest from sin promptings that ever en- 
treat us, 
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to 
ill. 

Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on 
thy pillow 

Work — thou shalt ride over Care's com- 
ing billow; 

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep- 
ing willow; 
Work with a stout heart and resolute 
will! 



Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman 
reaping, 

How through kis veins goes the life cur- 
rent leaping! 

How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride 
sweeping, 
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle 
guides. 

Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl 
groweth ; 

Rich the queen's robe from the frail co- 
coon floweth; 

From the fine acorn the strong forest 
bloweth; 
Temple and statue the marble block 
hides. 

— F. S. Osgood. 



%&N tcfr t5* . 

A MEMORIAL DAY EXERCISE. 

ELLA M. POWERS. 



PATRIOTIC SONG (in which all join). 
Selected. 

ORIGINAL ADDRESS (or suitable 
recitation) . 
Speaker A. — 
The May-day air is hushed and still, 

The far-off muffled drums I hear, 
With measured tread up yonder hill, 

The brave old soldiers now appear. 

Our flag floats solemnly above 
Their heads, now bent and gray, 

But hearts are filled with tender love, 
As they march on their way. 

These men bore sabers years ago, 
To-day they bear sweet flowers, 

These to their comrades they bestow 
In May-day's fairest hours. 

But here a train of children bright 
Are marching on this way 



With flags and flowers — a gladsome sight 
On each Memorial Day. 

Enter seven children; the fourth in order 
bears a large Hag; the others carry 
wreaths of flowers and small Hags. The 
wreaths should be made of red, of white, 
and of blue flowers (two of each color). 
They march in to soft, muffled drum- 
beats. They halt, and face about in line. 

Speaker A. — 

Why are you inarching here to-day, 

With flags and wreaths of flowers, pray? 

Flag Bearer. — 

As long as this old flag shall wave, 

We'll deck with flowers each soldier's grave ; 

Their names we honor and revere, 

And loving tributes pay each year. 

All form semi-circle during the delivery of 
MEMORY GEMS : 

O Land of lands ! to thee we give 

Our prayers, our hopes, our service free ; 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



51 



For thee thy sons shall nobly live, 

And at thy need shall die for thee. 

— Whit tier. 

Oh, tell me not that they are dead, — that 
generous host, that airy array of invisible 
heroes. They hover as a cloud above this 
nation. — Beecher. 

They fought to give us peace, and lo! 

They gained a better peace than ours. 
— Phebe Cory. 

Selected quotations or recitations — found 
on other pages, or in Lyceum Night, Nos. 
13 and 23 — can be given, alternately, by as 
many as desire, after which 
Numbers one and five hold up their wreaths 

of red: 
1. — 
Our wreaths are of crimson — a blood-red 

hue, 
And before us our volunteers pass in re- 
view, 
For the red of defiance to battle incites, 
To strife and to war the hero invites. 

5-— 

Deep sounding on the ear, there came 

The din of battles' dread alarms ; 
The muttered roll of myriad drums, 

The cannon's roar, the clash of arms ; 
The clanking squadron's measured tread, 

The trumpet's wild and martial notes, 
While proudly gleaming overhead 

The standard of our country floats, — 
The Stars and Stripes. 
All zvave their flags gently during the last 

two lines. Wreaths are lowered as two 
and six raise wreaths of white: 
2. — 

We bear the wreaths of white, so pure, 
The conflict has ceased and peace shall en- 
dure; 
No North and no South, no East and no 

West, 
But one land, united in peace and at rest. 



No more sounds the trumpet or bugle's 

loud call, 
But quiet and peace now reigns over all. 
6.— 
The earth has healed her wounded breast, 

The cannons plough the field no more ; 
The heroes rest! Oh, let them rest 

In peace along the peaceful shore ! 
They fought for peace, for peace they fell ; 
They sleep in peace, and all is well. 

— Joaquin Miller. 

Three and seven raise wreaths of blue: 

3-— 

We bear the wreaths of heavenly hue, 
The flowers that bid us all be true, 
True to the soldiers now at rest, 
True to the land we love the best. 

7-— 

We'll never forget those brave deeds of old, 

Of heroes, — a true, loyal band, 
Who faced the dangers of war untold, 

Who fought and who died for our land. 
4 (Flag Bearer). — 
To-day we strew these sweetest flowers 

O'er the mounds of our heroes brave, 
With reverent thought through the solemn 
hours, 

We deck each soldier's grave. 
Whether he fought in the blue or the gray, 

Under the palm or the pine, 
Each hero with equal love we pay, 

Each deed shall equally shine; 
And these flowers of red, and the white 
ones pure, 

And the blooms of heavenly blue, 
Are the colors of this old flag secure, 

To which each soldier was true. 
All (waving flags). — 
We love forever the stars and stripes, 

Forever to them we are true, 
We love our land and our dear old flag, 

Of the red, and white, and blue. 
These colors have long been the nation's 
pride, 



52 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



Their beauty we ever adore, 
By the red, white, and blue we ever abide, 
May they wave forevermore. 



All march out singing, 
and Blue." 



The Red, White, 



*5* c$* «<$* 



ADDRESS FOR DECORATION DAY. 



COMPANIONS and Friends: We 
meet on this solemn occasion, in the 
performance of a sacred duty, — to revive 
memories of our departed heroes, to recount 
their deeds of valor and self-sacrifice, and 
to bedeck anew their honored graves with 
these emblems of purity, — these beautiful 
flowers of May. 

The poet says : 

"After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." 
So, indeed, does the hero who awaits the 
great roll-call. Flowers spring up on his 
grave, and the winds of early summer fan 
our cheeks as we scatter tokens of love upon 
the grassy mound, while a voice seems to 
whisper : Yes, life is a fever, we are all in 
its heated grasp. But pause in the delirium 
of haste for the things of this world, and 
come aside from the "madding crowd," to 
join the kindlier procession where your 
brow will cool and your pulse slacken. 

Away with any who say this day is only 
a sentiment. It bears more fruit than tears 
and flowers. The old song, " 'Tis love that 
makes the world go round," answers such 
cavillers. So when America overflows with 
love and forgiveness till each earth-corner 
feels the glow, then can we say "How far 
yon little candle sheds its beams!" Only 



thus shall war-clouds depart and the dove 
of Peace fold her wings on the weary world. 
Only thus shall the sword be beaten into a 
ploughshare, — shall the bliss of Eden re- 
turn. 

Say not either that this memorial per- 
petuates strife ! It may be to us the high- 
way of Peace. It calls. Excelsior ! and that 
upward way is not marred by bloodstains, 
but strewn with lilies and forget-me-nots, — 
emblems of purity and remembrance. Let 
us, then, obey these voices which say: 
"Rest, and come up higher." The road 
may yet look steep, the black wings of War 
and Death may still shadow the upward 
path, but Memorial Day gleams out each 
year with sunshine that will, in time, drive 
all clouds away. Let America be the leader 
up to the purer air ! Let all nations follow 
her to the "Plains of Peace" ! — and in that 
day all people will see the full fruition of 
hopes and tears. 

Pass, then, with reverent tread 
Among the sleeping dead ; 
Whilst flowers adorn the sod 
Let prayers ascend to God 
From grateful hearts, that He 
Will keep us ever free. 



£& C^* 5(5* 



THE EAGLE SCREAMS. 



1AM the American Eagle, 
And my wings flap together. 
Likewise, I roost high, 
And I eat bananas raw. 



Rome may sit on her 
Seven hills and howl, 
But she cannot 
Sit on me! 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



53 



Will she please put that 
In her organ and grind it? 

I am mostly a bird of peace, 

And I was born without teeth, 

But I've got talons 

That reach from the storm- 

Beaten coasts of the Atlantic 

To the golden shores of the 

Placid Pacific, 

And I use the Rocky Mountains 

As whetstones to sharpen them on. 

I never cackle till I 

Lay an egg; 

And I point with pride 

To the eggs I've laid 

In the last hundred years or so. 

I'm game from 
The point of my beak 
To the star-spangled tip 



Of my tail feathers, 
And when I begin 
To scratch gravel, 
Mind your eye! 

I'm the cock of the walk, 
And the hen bird of the 
Goddess of Liberty, 
The only gallinaceous 
E Pluribus Unum 
On record. 

I'm an Eagle from Eagleville, 

With a scream on me that makes 

Thunder sound like 

Dropping cotton 

On a still morning, 

And my present address is 

Hail Columbia, 

U. S. A. ! ! 

See? 



*5* C7* *&% 



VALEDICTORIES. 



THE time has come when we must say 
Good-bye to all so true, 
And to life's field of action go, 

For we've a work to do. 
With our life's purpose e'er in view, 

May we with cheerful heart, 
And with a patient, willing hand 
Ever do well our part. 

Let us go onward, that by us 

Some little good be wrought, 
And teach the good and beautiful 

That we have here been taught. 
Let us in all our future years 

Forever faithful be, 
And aid each good and noble work, 

That we in life may see. 

May we each moment well employ, 
The rich seeds daily sow 



Of truth, of joy, and happiness, 

As on through life we go. 
When we the victory have won, 

When all life's tasks are o'er, 
We'll meet with those we hold so true, 

To say good-bye no more. 

OH, joyous day! we gladly welcome 
thee; 
Before thy light cares fly and leave us free ; 
But one regret still lingers in each heart 
That now from Alma Mater we must part. 

Thus far we've walked together, side by 

side, 
Along the strand where beats the angry 

tide; 
But now upon its waters dark and blue 
We must embark — life's journey to pursue. 



54 



NATIONAL READINGS AND DECLAMATIONS. 



Yet "ever onward" we will bravely steer, 
With God our pilot we have naught to fear ; 
All trials we will meet nor wear a frown — 
Without the cross we know there is no 
crown. 

And if adown the shadowy by and by 

We doubting gaze with straining, anxious 

eye, 
A moment turn aside the tide of care 
To breathe for each a loving, hopeful 

prayer. 

And then once more our hearts will joyful 
rise, 

Cheered by the ray of light from youth's 
blue skies; 

While to our tasks we'll turn as ne'er before 

With "Onward!" as our watchword ever- 
more. 

TO-DAY our school-days end. A place 
we take 
'Mong workers on a sea both large and 

wide. 
With willing hands and every power 

awake, 
We now advance to scenes by us untried. 
Oh, may we each as years receding glide, 
Have strength to toil tho' stormy waves roll 

high; 
Life's waters may we ever safely ride, 



Push on with hopeful heart and watchful 
eye, 

Remembering that our Captain strong is al- 
ways nigh. 

It is with pleasure that we look ahead, 

Our Guide is one of love and yet of might. 

When all our feeble strength has from us 
fled, 

He'll pilot us across life's sea aright, 

And ever mid the deepest gloom send light. 

The sail is set but where's the shore, my 
friends, 

Which we shall reach? Oh, is it dark or 
bright? 

Which strand we gain upon ourselves de- 
pends — 

The dark or bright, when at God's call our 
journey ends. 

If but for self we live upon this earth, 

A dark, dark shore will greet our weary 

eyes, 
In work for others lies the truest worth, 
Though oft such work our love and pa- 
tience tries, 
We must not e'en the smallest task despise. 
As we do deeds for Christ our spirit nears 
A shining shore where jasper walls arise, 
And when our Father's throne of light ap- 
pears, 
We'll dwell in peace with Him thro' endless 
years. 



The selections in this department have been made with a view of supplying the most enter- 
taining readings and recitations for the family circle when it gathers, at 
the end of the day, around the evening lamp. 

&5* c5* t5* 



PAPA'S SUM IN FRACTIONS. 



ittle old log school- 
Why, Maria, I re- 



( i T3APA," said a little West End girl 
1 the other evening, "I'm in fractions 
now, but I don't understand it. Tell me 
about some of these examples." 

"Certainly, certainly," said the father. 
"What's the trouble?" 

"Why, it says here that if a man travels 
25,795 miles in 25J days, how many miles 
will he travel in one day?" 

"Say, Maria," said the old man, as he 
looked beamingly at his wife, "doesn't that 
remind us of old times? La me! It just 
takes me back to the 
house in the woods, 
member one day — " 

"But, papa," interrupted the child, "I'm 
in a hurry. What's the answer?" 

"Oh! yes. Yes, of course. Give me the 
example again. Now I have it. If a man 
travels 25,795 miles in 25J days, how many 
miles will he travel in one day? That's an 
easy one. Maria, do you remember that 
little red-headed fellow who sat in front of 
you and annoyed you with his bean-shoot- 
er, and that hideous little Mary Bennett?" 

"But, papa, what's the answer?" 

"Oh! the answer; let me see." 

The man figured and calculated and said 
"oh!" and "ah!" and scratched out and be- 
gan again. Then he put his pencil in his 
mouth, paused a long while, and at last 
said: 



"Maria, I've sorter forgotten about this 
fraction of a day business. How does it 
go?" 

"Why, John," said the good woman, 
"You-er, you-er find the greatest common 
divisor, and — " 

"Say, Maria, that reminds me of the joke 
about the janitor who saw these very 
words on the blackboard: 'Find the great- 
est common divisor,' and he said: 'Well, is 
that durned thing lost again?' Curious 
how these: — " 

"But, papa, what's the answer?" 

"Oh! yes; where was I? Well, you 
divide the 25,795 by 25J, and the result will 
be the answer." 

"I know, papa, but what's the result?" 

"Didn't I just tell you that the result 
would be the answer? All you have to do 
is to put down the multiplicand — multipli- 
cand! Where have I heard that word? 
Why, Maria, it just makes me want to get 
out and play marbles and hookey and 
things." 

"But, Henry, you haven't solved that 
problem for the child." 

"That's so. Well, here goes. Twenty- 
five goes in 25 once; 25 into 7 no times, 
and into 79 three times and 4. And 45 
once and 20, or twenty twenty-fifths of 25 
and one-halfths, or 1,031 and one-fifths, 
or—" 



55 



56 



ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 



"Henry, what are you talking about?" 
"Maria, I started out to find that great- 
est common divisor of yours, but 'tain't no 
use. I say that any man who would un- 
dertake to walk 25,795 miles in 25^ days is 
just a plain, ordinary, every-day fool. He 
can't do it." 



"But, papa, what's the -* w 

"It hasn't got any answer. Just say to 
your teacher that it is preposterous — the 
idea of a man taking such a pedestrian tour 
as that. Truth is, Maria," he added con- 
fidentially to his wife, "I never did know 
anything about fractions." 



%&& ^* %&* 



WHEN I BUILT THE CABIN— TWO PICTURES. 

The poem which follows is from the pen of John Howard Bryant, brother of William Cullen 

Bryant, after he reached his ninetieth year. It was written in Princeton, 111., 

where his home was since he pitched his cabin as a young man more 

than a half century ago, and where he lived ever afterwards. 



HERE, five and sixty years ago, I said 
I'll build a shelter for the years to 
come; 
And here, upon spring's flowery sod, I laid 
The rude foundation of my cabin home. 

Words cannot paint the beauty of the 
scene; 
Fire had consumed the sere grass all 
around, 
And in advance of the returning green, 
Gay nodding violets covered all the 
ground. 

Then came the crimson phlox, and many 
a flower 
Unnamed, from Nature's bounteous 
hand was cast; 
The early summer brought a liberal dower, 
That bloomed and faded as the season 
passed. 

The teeming earth in autumn's golden 
hours 
Poured forth the glory of the waning 
year, 
And far as sight could reach, the myriad 
flowers, 
In serried ranks o'erspread the landscape 
here. 



The purple aster, and the golden-rod, 
In queenly dress stood rivals side by 
side; 
And there, beneath the radiant smile of 
God, 
Lay the vast splendor gleaming far and 
wide. 

My thoughts recur to that far distant day, 
The glory that entranced my youthful 
eye; 
Glory, alas ! forever passed away, 

From the dear scenes that still around 
me lie. 

Ages unknown, this beauty unsurpassed, 
Came with the violets, died with au- 
tumn's sheen; 
But the white civilizer came at last, 

And with his plowshare spoiled the 
charming scene. 

For beauty spoiled, new beauty came in- 
stead, 
And stately maize soon crowned the 
virgin soil; 
White harvests gave the waiting nation's, 
bread, 
Joy, peace and competence repaid the 
toil. 



AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 



57 



Orchards and gardens smiled through all 
the land, 
And happy cottage homes were every- 
where, 
And cities rose, as if a magic wand 

Had touched the earth, and, lo! a town 
was there. 



All this has passed before my wondering 
eyes; 
This mighty tide of life has still swept 
on, 
Scaled the vast heights that pierce our 
western skies, 
And built proud cities by the Oregon. 



t<5* ^* ^* 



MR. SPOOPENDYKE'S SHAVE. 



M 



Y dear!" exclaimed Mr. Spoopen- 
dyke, dropping his razor and ex- 
amining his chin with staring eyes, "my 
dear, bring the court plaster, quick! I've 
ploughed off half my chin!" 

"Let me see," demanded Mrs. Spoopen- 
dyke, bobbing up and fluttering around her 
husband. "Great gracious, what a cut! 
Wait a minute!" and she shot into a closet 
and out again. 

"Quick!" roared Mr. Spoopendyke. "I'm 
bleeding to death! fetch me that court plas- 
ter!" 

"Oh, dear!" moaned Mrs. Spoopendyke, 
"I put it — on, where did I put it?" 

"Dod gast that putty!" yelled Mr. Spoop- 
endyke, who had heard his wife imperfect- 
ly. "What d'ye think this is, a crack 
in the wall? Got some sort of a notion that 
there is a draught through here? Court 
plaster, I tell ye! Bring me some court 
plaster before I pull out the side of this 
house and get some from the neighbors!" 

Just then it occurred to Mrs. Spoopen- 
dyke that she had put the plaster in the 
clock. 

"Here it is, dear!" and she snipped off a 
piece and handed it to him. 

Mr. Spoopendyke put it on the end of his 
tongue, holding his thumb over his wound. 
When it was thoroughly wetted, it stuck 
fast to his finger, while the carnage ran 
down his chin. He jabbed away at the cut, 



but the plaster hung to his digit until 
finally his patience was thoroughly ex- 
hausted. 

"What's the matter with the measly busi- 
ness?" he yelled. "Wher'd ye buy this plas- 
ter? Come off, dod gast ye!" and as he 
plucked it off his finger it grew to his 
thumb. "Stick, will ye?" he squealed, plug- 
ging at the cut in his chin. "Leave go that 
thumb !" and he whirled around on his heel 
and pegged at it again. "Why don't ye 
bring me some court plaster?" he shrieked, 
turning on his trembling wife. "Who 
asked ye for a leech ? Bring me something 
that knows a thumb from a chin!" and he 
planted his thumb on the wound and 
screwed it around vindictively. This time 
the plaster let go and slipped up to the 
corner of his mouth. 

"Now, it's all right, dear," smiled Mrs. 
Spoopendyke, with a fearful grin. "May be 
you've got the same idea that the court 
plaster has! P'raps you think that mouth 
was cut with a razor ! May be you're under 
the impression that this hole in my visage 
was meant to succumb to the persuasion of 
a bit of plaster! Come off! Let go that 
mouth!" and as he gave it a wipe it stuck 
to the palm of his hand as if it had been 
born there. 

"Let me try," suggested Mrs. Spoopen- 
dyke, "I know how to do it." 

"Then why didn't ye do it first?" howled 



58 



ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 



Mr. Spoopendyke. "What did you want 
to wait until I'd lost three gallons of gore 
for? Oh, you know how to do it! You 
want a linen back and a bottle of mucilage 
up at your side to be a country hospital. 
Stick! Dod gast ye!" and he clapped the 
wrong hand over his jaw. "I'll hold ye 
here till ye stick, if I hold ye till my wife 
learns something!" and Mr. Spoopendyke 
pranced up and down the room with a face 
indicative of stern determination. 

"Let me see, dear," said his wife ap- 
proaching him with a smile, and gently 
drawing away his hand she deftly adjusted 
another piece of plaster. 

"That was my piece after all," growled 
Mr. Spoopendyke, eyeing the job and 



glancing at the palm of his hand to find 
his piece of plaster gone. "You always 
come in after the funeral." 

"I guess you'll find your piece sticking 
in the other hand, dear," said Mrs. Spoop- 
endyke pleasantly. 

"Of course you can tell," snorted Mr. 
Spoopendyke, verifying his wife's assertion 
with a glance. "If I had your sight and a 
pack of cards, I'd hire a shot tower and set 
up for an astronomer!" and Mr. Spoopen- 
dyke, who evidently meant astrology, wore 
that piece of blood-stained court plaster on 
his hand all day long, rather than admit, 
by taking it off, that his wife had ever been 
right in anything. 



c5* *&* &5* 



ABRAHAM BROUGHT TO BAY. 



I SAT on the seat with the colored man 
who drove me down to the railroad 
depot with a shacklety old wagon, and as 
we left the hotel he said: 

"Boss, if yo' kin dun say ober a few big 
words on de way down, de ole man will be 
'xtremely disobleeged to yo'." 

"How big words do you want?" 

"Can't git 'em too* big, boss. I'ze a 
powerful hand to 'member big words an' 
git 'em off when a calamitous occasion pre- 
dominates." 

"Do you expect to find use for them this 
morning?" 

"Reckon I does, sah. My son, Abraham, 
works down to de depot, an' whenever I 
cums around he tries to show off ober me 
an' make me feel small. He'll try it on dis 
mawnin', fur suah, an' I jest want to be 
dun fixed to paralyse his desirability. Spit 
'm right out, boss, an' de ole man won't 
forgit yo' when de watermillyun sezum 
cums ag'n." 



We had about half a mile to go, and be- 
fore we reached the depot I gave him a 
large and choice assortment of Webster's 
longest vocabularic curiosities. 

When we drew up at the platform Abra- 
ham was there, and also a dozen white 
people who were to go out on the 
train. It was a good opportunity for the 
son to show off, and he realized it, and 
came forward and waved his arm and 
shouted: 

"Yo' dar, ole man; ha'n't I dun toled yo' 
'bout four hundred times not to sagaciate 
dat stupendous ole vehicle in de way of de 
omnibus? Sum ole niggers doan seem to 
have no mo' idea of de consaguinity of re- 
cititude dan a squash." 

"Was yo' spokin' to me; sah?" stiffly de- 
manded the father, as he stood up and 
glared at Abraham. 

"Of co'se I was." 

"Den, sah, I want yo' to distinctly under- 
stand dat, when de co-operashun of de im- 



ABOUND TEE EVENING LAMP, 



59 



perialism seems to assimilate a disreputa- 
ble infringement of hereditary avaricious- 
ness, I shall retract my individuality, but 
not befo' — not befo', san!" 

Abraham's eyes hung out, his com- 
plexion became ash color, and his knees 
bent under him as if the springs were about 



to give way. It was a long minute before 
he could utter a sound, and then he 
reached for my trunk with the muttered ob- 
servation: 

"Befo' de Lawd, but things am gittin' so 
mixed up I can't dun tell whedder I'm his 
son or his fader!" 



t&* t&* t£& 



HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 



AT the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden, 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
And the maiden looked up at him, 
Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
"You are welcome, Hiawatha !" 
Very spacious was the wigwam, 
Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened 
With the gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter, 
Hardly touched his eagle feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of basswood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 
Listened while her father answered, 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered, 

Yet, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind 



And of happiness and plenty, 

In the land of the O jib ways, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful. 

"After many years of warfare, 
Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the O jib ways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs :" 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
"That this peace may last forever, 
And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women ?" 

And the ancient arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water ; 
And made answer very gravely ; 
"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him, 
While she said and blushed to say it, 
"I will follow you, my husband !" 

This was Hiawatha's wooing! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient arrow-maker 



60 



ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 



In the land of the Dacotahs ! 
From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow, 
Left the Old Man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from the distance, 
Crying to them from afar off, 
"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha !" 
And the ancient arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor, 



Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
Murmuring to himself, and saying : 
"Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Those we love, and those who love us ! 
Just when they have learned to love us, 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger!" 

— H. W. Longfellow. 



£& t&fc t&* 

EXERCISE IN PRONUNCIATION. 



A JOCUND, sacrilegious son of Belial, 
who suffered from bronchitis, having 
exhausted his finances at the annual joust, 
in order to make good the deficit, resolved 
to ally himself to a comely, lenient and 
docile young lady of the Malay or Caucas- 
ian race. He accordingly purchased a 
calliope, a coral necklace of chameleon hue, 
and securing ,a suite of rooms at a hotel, 
he engaged the head waiter as his coad- 
jutor. He then dispatched a letter of the 
most unexceptionable calligraphy extant, 
with a sentimental hemistich, inviting the 
young lady to an orchestral concert. 

She was harassed, and with a truculent 



look revolted at the idea, refused to con- 
sider herself sacrificable to his desires, and 
sent a polite note of refusal, on receiving 
which, he procured a carbine and bowie 
knife, said that he would not now forge 
fetters hymeneal with the queen, went to 
an isolated spot, severed his jugular vein, 
and discharged the contents of his carbine 
into his abdomen, with a grimace at the 
raillery of his acquaintances. He suc- 
cumbed and was irrefragably dead, and 
neither vagaries nor pageantry were per- 
mitted when he was conveyed to the mau- 
soleum followed by his enervated canine. 



C7* fc5* t&* 

FARO BILL'S SERMON. 

(He tells the story of the Prodigal Son. J 

[Faro Bill, of Leadville, had experienced religion, and soon thereafter, during the 

absence of the regular preacher, volunteered to preach the Sunday sermon.] 



FELLER citizens, the preacher bein' 
absent, it falls on me to take his hand 
and play it fur all it is worth. You all know 
that I'm just learnin' the game, an' of 
course I may be expected to make wild 
breaks, but I don't believe there's a rooster 



in the camp mean enough to take advan- 
tage o' my ignorance and cold deck me 
right on the first deal. I'm sincere in this 
new departure, an' I believe I've struck a 
game that I can play clear through without 
copperin' a bet, for when a man tackles 



ABOUND THE. EVENING LAMP. 



61 



such a lay out as this he plays every card 
to win, and if he goes through the deal as 
he orter do, when he lays down to die an' 
the last case is reddy to slide from the box 
he can call the turn every time. 

"I was readin' in the Bible to-day that 
yarn about the Prodigal Son, and I want 
to tell you the story. The book don't give 
no dates, but it happened long, long ago. 
This Prodigal Son had an old man that put 
up the coin every time the kid struck him 
for a stake, an' never kicked at the size of 
the pile, either. I recon the old man was 
pretty well fixed, an' when he died he in- 
tended to give all his wealth to this kid an' 
his brother. Prod gave the old man a little 
game o' talk one day, and induced him to 
whack up in advance o' the death racket. 
He'd no sooner got his divy in his fist than 
he shook the old man an' struck out to take 
in some o' the other camps. He had a 
way-up time for awhile, and slung his cash 
to the front like he owned the best playin' 
lead on earth; but hard luck hit him at last 
an' left him flat. The book don't state 
what he went broke on, but I -recon he got 
steered up again some brace game. But 
anyhow he got left without a chip or a 
four-bit piece to go an' eat on. An old 
granger then tuk him home an' set him to 



herdin' hogs, an' here he got so hard up 
an' hungry that he piped off the swine 
while they were feedin,' and he stood in 
with them on a shuck lunch. He soon 
weakened on such plain provender, and 
says to himself, says he: 'Even the old 
man's hired hands are livin' on square 
grub, while I'm worrin' along here on corn 
husks straight. I'll just take a grand tum- 
ble to myself, an' chop on this racket at 
once. I'll skip back to the governor and 
try to fix things up, and call for a new deal.' 
So off he started. 

"The old man seed the kid a-comin', and 
what do you reckon he did? Did he pull 
his gun and lay for him, intendin' to wipe 
him as soon as he got into range? Did he 
call the dogs to chase him off the ranch? 
Did he hustle round for a club and give 
him a stand off at the front gate? Eh? 
Not to any alarming extent he didn't; no 
sir. The Scripture book says he waltzed 
out to meet him, and froze to him on the 
spot and kissed him and then marched him 
off to a clothing store, and fitted him out 
in the nobbiest rig to be had for coin. 
Then the old gent invited all the neighbors, 
and killed a fat calf, and gave the biggest 
blow-out the camp ever seen." 



o5* t^* ^5* 



THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. 



TO me comes the brakeman, and seat- 
ing himself on the arm of the seat 
says: 

"I went to church yesterday." 

"Yes?" I said, with that interested in- 
flection that asks for more. "And what 
church did you attend?" 

"Which do you guess?" he asked. 

"Some union mission church?" I haz- 
arded. 



"Naw," he said, "I don't like to run on 
these branch roads very much. I don't 
often go to church, and when I do, I want 
to run on the main line, where your run is 
regular and you go on a schedule time and 
don't have to wait on connections. I don't 
like to run on a branch. Good enough, 
but I don't like it." 

"Episcopal?" I guessed. 

"Limited Express," he said; "all palace 



62 



ABOUND THE EVENING LAMP. 



cars and $2 extra for a seat; fast time, and 
only stop at big stations. Nice line, but 
too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train 
men in uniform, conductor's punch and 
lantern silverplated, and no train boys al- 
lowed. Then the passengers are allowed to 
talk back at the conductor; and it makes 
them too free and easy. No, I couldn't 
stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. 
Don't often hear of a receiver being ap- 
pointed for that line. Some mighty nice 
people travel on it, too." 

"Universalist?" I suggested. 

"Broad-gauge," said the brakeman, "does 
too much complimentary business. Every- 
body travels on a pass. Conductor doesn't 
get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at all 
flag-stations, and won't run into anything 
but a union depot. No smoking-car on 
the train. Train orders are vague though, 
and the train men don't get along well with 
the passengers. No, I don't go to the 
Universalist, though I know some awfully 
good men who run on that road." 

"Presbyterian?" I asked. 

"Narrow-gauge, eh?" said the brakeman, 
"pretty track, straight as a rule; tunnel 
right through a mountain rather than go 
round it; spirit-level grade; passengers 
have to show their tickets before they get 
on the train. Mighty strict road, but the 
cars are a little narrow; have to sit one in a 
seat and no room in the aisle to dance. 
Then there's no stop-over tickets allowed; 
got to go straight through to the station 
you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at 
all. When the car's full no extra coaches; 
cars built at the shops to hold just so many 
and nobody else allowed on. But you 
don't often hear of an accident on that 
road. It's run up to the rules." 

"Maybe you joined the Free-Thinkers ?" 
I said. 

"Scrub road," said the brakeman; "dirt 



road-bed and no ballast; no time card and 
no train despatchers. All trains run wild 
and every engineer makes his own time, 
just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to; 
kind of go-as-you-please road. Too many 
side-tracks, and every switch wide open all 
the time, with the switchman sound asleep 
and the target lamp dead out. Get on as 
you please and get off when you want to. 
Don't have to show your tickets, and the 
conductor isn't expected to do anything 
but amuse the passengers. No, sir, I was 
offered a pass, but I don't like the line. 
I don't like to travel on a line that has no 
terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a 
division superintendent where that road 
run to, and he said he hoped to die if he 
knew. I asked a conductor who he got his 
orders from, and he said he didn't take 
orders from any living man or dead ghost. 
And when I asked the engineer who he got 
his orders from, he said he'd like to see 
anybody give him orders, he'd run that 
train to suit himself or he'd run it into the 
ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad 
man, and I don't care to run on a road that 
has no time, makes no connections, runs 
nowhere and has no Superintendent. It 
may be all right, but I've railroaded too 
long to understand it." 

"Did you try the Methodist?" I said. 

"Now you're shouting," he said with 
some enthusiasm. "Nice road, eh? Fast 
time and plenty of passengers. Engines 
carry a power of steam and don't you for- 
get it; steam gauge shows a hundred and 
enough all the time. Lively road; when 
the conductor shouts 'all aboard,' you can 
hear him to the next station. Good, whole- 
souled, companionable conductors; ain't 
a road in the country where the passengers 
feel more at home. No passes; every pas- 
senger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. 
Wesleyan house airbrake on all trains, too ; 



ABOUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 



63 



pretty safe road, but I didn't ride over it 
yesterday." 

"Maybe you went to the Congregational 
church?" 

"Popular road," said the brakeman; "an 
old road, too; one of the very oldest in this 
country. Good road bed and comfortable 
cars. Well managed road, too; directors 
don't interfere with division superintend- 
ents and train orders. Road's mighty pop- 
ular, but it's pretty independent, too. 
Say, didn't one of the division superintend- 
ents down East discontinue one of the 
oldest stations on this line two or three 
years ago? But it's a mighty pleasant road 
to travel on. Always has such a splendid 
class of passengers." 

"Perhaps you tried the Baptist?" I 
guessed. 

"Ah, ha!" said the brakeman; "she's a 
daisy, isn't she! river road; beautiful 
curves; sweep around anything to keep 
close to the river. Takes a heap of water 
to run it through; double tanks at every 



station, and there isn't an engine in the 
shops that can pull a pound or run a mile 
in less than two gauges. But it runs 
through a lovely country ; these river roads 
always do; river on one side and hills on 
the other, and it's on a steady climb up 
the grade all the way till the run ends 
where the fountain-head of the river be- 
gins. Yes, sir, I'll take the river road every 
time for a lovely trip, sure connections and 
good time, and no prairie dust blowing in 
at the windows. And yesterday when the 
conductor came around for the tickets with 
a little basket punch, I didn't ask him to 
pass me, but I paid my fare like a little 
man — twenty-five cents for an hour's run 
and a little concert by the passengers 
throwed in. I tell you, Pilgrim, you take 
the river road when you want — < — " 

But just here the long whistle from the 
engine announced a station, and the brake- 
man hurried to the door shouting: "Zions- 
ville! Zionsville! This train makes no stops, 
between here and Indianapolis!" 






THE RESETTLEMENT OF ARCADIA. 



(From "Songs of the 

THE rocky slopes for emerald had 
changed their garb of gray, 
When the vessels from Connecticut came 

sailing up the bay, 
There were flashing lights on every wave 

that drew the strangers on, 
And wreaths of wild arbutus round the 
brows of Blomidon. 

Five years in desolation the Acadian land 

had lain, 
Five golden harvest moons had wooed the 

fallow fields in vain; 
Five times the winter snows caressed, and 

summer sunsets smiled, 



Great Dominion.") 

On lonely clumps of willows, and fruit trees 
growing wild. 

There was silence in the forest, and along 

the Uniac shore, 
And not a habitation from Canard to 

Beausejour, 
But many a ruined cellar and many a 

broken wall 
Told the story of Acadia's prosperity, and 

fall ! 

And even in the sunshine of that peaceful 

day in June, 
When Nature swept her harp, and found 

the strings in perfect tune, 



■M 



64 



AROUND TEE EVENING LAMP. 



The land seemed calling wildly for its own- 
ers, far away, 

The exiles scattered on the coast from 
Maine to Charleston Bay. 

Where, with many bitter longings for their 
fair homes and their dead, 

They bowed their heads in anguish, and 
would not be comforted; 

And like the Jewish exiles, long ago, be- 
yond the sea, 

They could not sing the songs of home in 
their captivity ! 

But the simple Norman peasant-folk shall 

till the land no more, 
For the vessels from Connecticut have 

anchored by the shore, 
And many a sturdy Puritan, his mind with 

Scripture stored, 
Rejoices he has found at last his "garden 

of the Lord." 

There are families from Jolland, from Kil- 
lingworth and Lyme; 

Gentle mothers, tender maidens, and strong 
men in their prime; 

There are lovers who have plighted their 
vows in Coventry, 

And merry children, dancing o'er the ves- 
sels' decks in glee. 

They come as came the Hebrews into their 

promised land, 
Not as to wild New England's shores came 

first the Pilgrim band, 
The Minas fields were fruitful, and the 

Gaspereau had borne 
To seaward many a vessel with its freight 

of yellow corn. 

They come with hearts as true as their 

manners blunt and cold, 
To found a race of noble men of stern 

New England mould, 



A race of earnest people, whom the com- 
ing years shall teach 

The broader ways of knowledge and the 
gentler forms of speech. 

They come as Puritans, but who shall say 

their hearts are blind 
To the subtle charms of Nature and the 

love of humankind? 
The Blue Laws of Connecticut have shaped 

their thought, 'tis true, 
But human laws can never wholly Heaven's 

work undo. 

And tears fall fast from many an eye long 

time unused to weep, 
For o'er the fields lay whitening the bones 

of cows and sheep — 
The faithful cows that used to feed upon 

the broad Grand Pre, 
And with their tinkling bells come slowly 

home at close of day. 

And where the Acadian village stood, its 
roofs o'ergrown with moss, 

And the simple wooden chapel with its 
altar and its cross, 

And where the forge of Basil sent its 
sparks towards the sky, 

The lonely thistle blossomed and the fire- 
weed grew high. 
* * * * * * * 

The broken dykes have been rebuilt a cen- 
tury and more, 

The cornfields stretch their furrows from 
Canard to Beausejour, 

Five generations have been reared beside 
the fair Grand Pre 

Since the vessels from Connecticut came 
sailing up the bay. 

And now across the meadows, while the 

farmers reap and sow, 
The engine shrieks its discords to the hills 

of Gaspereau; 




1 

w 

E* 

w 

CO' 

m 
H 

E* 






AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 



67 



And ever onward to the sea, the restless 

Fundy tide 
Bears playful pleasure yachts and busy 

trade ships side by side. 

And the Puritan has yielded to the soften- 
ing touch of time, 

Like him who still content remained in 
Killingworth and Lyme; 

And graceful homes of prosperous men 
make all the landscape fair, 

Ande* mellow creeds and ways of life are 
rooted everywhere. 

And churches nestle lovingly on many a 
glad hillside, 



And holy bells ring out their music in the 
eventide ; 

But here and there, on untilled ground, 
apart from glebe or town, 

Some lone surviving apple-tree stands leaf- 
less, bare and brown. 

And many a traveler has found, as thought- 
lessly he strayed, 

Some long-forgotten cellar in the deepest 
thicket's shade, 

And clumps of willows by the dykes, sweet- 
scented, fair and green, 

That seemed to tell again the story of 
Evangeline. 

— Arthur Wentzvorth Eaton. 



*£& %j& &5* 



SPOOPENDYKE'S BICYCLE. 



NOW, my dear," said Mr. Spoopendyke, 
hurrying up to his wife's room, "If 
you'll come down in the yard I've got a 
pleasant surprise for you." 

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Spoopendyke, 
"what have you got, a horse?" 

"Guess again," grinned Mr. Spoopen- 
dyke. "It's something like a horse." 

"I know! It's a new parlbr carpet. 
That's what it is!" 

"No, it isn't, either. I said it's some- 
thing like a horse; that is, it goes when 
you make it. Guess again." 

"Is it paint for the kitchen walls?" asked 
Mrs. Spoopendyke, innocently. 

"No, it ain't and it ain't a hogshead of 
stove blacking, nor a set of dining-room 
furniture, nor it ain't seven gross of sta- 
tionary wash tubs. Now guess again." 

"Then it must be some lace curtains for 
the sitting-room windows. Isn't that just 
splendid?" and Mrs. Spoopendyke patted 
her husband on both cheeks and danced up 
and down with delight. 



"It's a bicycle, that's what it is !" growled 
Mr. Spoopendyke. "I bought it for ex- 
ercise and I'm going to ride it. Come down 
and see me." 

"Well, ain't I glad," ejaculated Mrs. 
Spoopendyke. "You ought to have more 
exercise, if there's exercise in anything, it's 
in a bicycle. Do let's see it!" 

Mr. Spoopendyke conducted his wife to 
the yard and descanted at length on the 
merits of the machine. 

"In a few weeks I'll be able to make a 
mile a minute," he said, as he steadied the 
apparatus against the clothes post and pre- 
pared to mount. "Now you watch me go 
to the end of this path." 

He got a foot into one treadle and went 
head first into a flower patch, the machine 
on top, with a prodigious crash. 

"Hadn't you better tie it up to the post 
until you get on?" suggested Mrs. Spoop- 
endyke. 

"Leave me alone, will ye?" demanded 
Mr. Spoopendyke, struggling to an even 



68 



AROUND THE EVENING LAMP. 



keel. "I'm doing most of this myself. 
Now you hold on and keep your mouth 
shut. It takes a little practice, that's all." 

Mr. Spoopendyke mounted again and 
scuttled along four or five feet and flopped 
over on the grass plat. 

"That's splendid!" commended his wife. 
"You've got the idea already. Let me hold 
it for you this time." 

"If you've got any extra strength you 
hold your tongue, will ye?" growled Mr. 
Spoopendyke. "It don't want any holding. 
It ain't alive. Stand back and give me 
room, now." 

The third trial Mr. Spoopendyke ambled 
to the end of the path and went down all 
in a heap among the flower pots. 

"That's just too lovely for anything!" 
proclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke. "You 
made more'n a mile a minute, that time." 

"Come and take it off!" roared Mr. 
Spoopendyke. "Help me up! Dod gast 
the bicycle!" and the worthy gentleman 
struggled and plunged around like a whale 
in shallow water. 

Mrs. Spoopendyke assisted in righting 
him and brushed him off. 

"I know where you make your mistake," 
said she. "The little wheel ought to go 
first, like a buggy. Try it that way going 
back." 

"Maybe you can ride this bicycle better 
than I can," howled Mr. Spoopendyke. 
"You know all about wheels! What you 
need now is a lantern in your mouth and 
ten minutes behind time to be the City 
Hall clock! If you had a bucket of water 
and a handle you'd make a steam grind- 
stone! Don't you see the big wheel has 
got to go first?" 

"Yes, dear," murmured Mrs. Spoopen- 



dyke, "but I thought if you practiced with 
the little wheel at first, you wouldn't have 
so far to fall." 

"Who fell?" demanded Mr. Spoopen- 
dyke. "Didn't you see me step off? I 
tripped, that's all. Now you just watch me 
go back." 

Once more Mr. Spoopendyke started in, 
but the big wheel turned around . and 
looked him in the face, and then began to 
stagger. 

"Look out!" squealed Mrs. Spoopen- 
dyke. 

Mr. Spoopendyke wrenched away and 
kicked and struggled, but it was of no avail. 
Down he came, and the bicycle was a hope- 
less wreck. 

"What'dye want to yell for!" he shrieked. 
"Couldn't ye keep your measly mouth 
shut? What'd ye think we are, anyhow, a 
fog horn? Dod gast the measly bicycle!" 
and Mr. Spoopendyke hit it a kick that 
folded it up like a bolt of muslin. 

"Never mind, my dear," consoled Mrs. 
Spoopendyke, "I'm afraid the exercise was 
too violent anyway, and I'm rather glad 
you broke it." 

"I s'pose so," snorted Mr. Spoopendyke. 
"There's sixty dollars gone." 

"Don't worry, love. I'll go without the 
carpet and curtains, and the paint will do 
well enough in the kitchen. Let me rub 
you with arnica." 

But Mr. Spoopendyke was too deeply 
grieved by his wife's conduct to accept any 
office at her hands, preferring to punish 
her by letting his wounds smart rather than 
get well, and thereby relieve her of any 
anxiety she brought on herself by acting so 
outrageously under the circumstances. 
— Stanley Huntley. 



In this department are embraced the choicest patriotic literature and descriptive scenes of 
war from Colonial days to the present time. 



t&& z&* s&fo 



BURIAL UNDER FIRE. 



(Can be used either as 

HIGH on the ridge where the marines 
pitched their tents on the shore of 
Guantanamo Bay, the first Cuban soil 
taken by American troops, are the graves 
of the men who were killed in the first land 
fighting of our war with Spain. They were 
buried under fire by men who overlooked 
no tithe of the solemn ceremony, although 
the singing of Spanish bullets rose clear 
above the voice of the chaplain. 

The burial squad was composed of 
marines from the Texas. Wrapped in 
flags, the honorable winding sheet of 
soldiers killed in battle, the bodies were 
borne from a tent in which they had lain 
to a trench dug by men who made it deep 
because their fear that the drenching 
Cuban rains would give their comrades to 
the buzzards was greater than their fear of 
the death they risked as they plied pick 
and shovel. 

Chaplain Jones of the Texas, the firing 
squad, a few officers and some correspond- 
ents stood bareheaded about the grave. 
From the thick cover beyond there came 
the irregular "putt, putt, putt" of skirmish 
fire and the regular sputter of the machine 
guns. There marines and Spanish guer- 
rillas were fighting from thicket to thicket. 
Soon there would be more dead to bury, 
we thought. 

Gently the men of the Texas lowered the 
flagwound "jollies" — "Soldier and sailor, 



a reading or a recitation.) 

too," as Kipling has it — into the earth. 
The chaplain stood with his back to the 
cover from which came the rattle of 
musketry, and began the solemn service. 
Slow and deliberate fell the words, and 
seldom has their import been realized more 
fully than it was there at the edge of the 
bullet-threshed jungle. 

"Man that is born of woman " 

A bullet pecked the earth at his feet and 
sent it flying. Others sang overhead. 
Some leaves and twigs fell from the near- 
est trees. A man or two dropped behind 
the earth thrown out of the grave. The 
Spanish were firing on the burial party. 

The marines of the Texas raised their 
heads for a second and bowed them again. 
They made no other motion. The officer 
in command, pale ordinarily, flushed red 
as if angered by the enemy's sacrilege. 

The chaplain moved a pace from where 
he was standing and turned his face toward 
the thicket from which the bullets were 
coming. Then his words fell slowly and 
gravely, "Man that is born of woman," and 
so to the end. 

As he faced the fire those who had 
sought shelter stood up instantly and 
bowed their heads reverently. The fire 
slackened, ceased. The earth fell on the 
flags and covered them, and the heroes 
wrapped within. A man or two dropped 
a tear and a tender, parting word to his 
69 • 



70 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



comrades, and the burial party, its duty fit- 
tingly done, moved seaward over the crest 
of the ridge out of range. 

Half way down the crooked path which 
led to the landing two of the men who had 
stood steadily at the grave were marked 
by a Spanish sharp-shooter, and a Mauser 
bullet "pinged" above them. They ran for 



u 



BARBARA 

P from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 



The clustered spires of Frederick stand, 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall, 
When Lee marched over the mountain 
wall. 

Over the mountain winding down, 
Horse and foot into Fredericktown. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Fredericktown 

She took up the flag the men hauled down. 

In her attic window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 



cover like startled game, for the funeral 
was over and they had no desire to make 
another. 

But the men who were at the grave that 
day will remember long and with a solemn 
sense of their great lesson the words, "Man 
that is born of woman." 



FRIETCHIE. 

"Halt!" the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
"Fire" — out blazed the rifle blast. 

It shivered the window pane and sash, 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the window sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word. 

"Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog. March on!" he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet; 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the serried host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well. 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



n 



Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 

And the soldier rides on his raids no more. 

Honor^to her, and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave. 



Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Fredericktown. 
— John Greenleaf Whittier. 



*£& t&* t&* 



"OLD IRONSIDES." 

(Written with reference to the proposed breaking up of the famous frigate "Constitution.") 



AY, tear her tattered ensign down! 
Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky; 
Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar: 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more! 

Her deck, once red witfi heroes' blood, 
Where knelt the vanquished foe, 

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood 
And waves were white below, 



No more shall feel the victor's tread, 
Or know the conquered knee; 

The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea! 

O better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave! 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave: 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale! 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



c5* ««5* «<5* 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 



MINE eyes have seen the glory of the 
coming of the Lord: 
He is trampling out the vintage where the 

grapes of wrath are stored; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His 
terrible swift sword: 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a 

hundred circling camps: 
They have builded Him an altar in the 

evening dews and damps; 
I can read His righteous sentence by the 

dim and flaring lamps. 
His day is marching on. 



I have read a fiery Gospel, writ in burn- 
ished rows of steel: 

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with 
you my grace shall deal; 

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 
serpent with his heel, 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that 

shall never call retreat; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before 

His judgment-seat: 
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be 

jubilant, my feet! 
Our God is marching on. 



72 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 
across the sea, 

With a glory in His bosom that trans- 
figures you and me: 



As He died to make men holy, let us die 
to make men free, 
While God is marching on. 

— Julia Ward Howe. 






GRANDFATHER'S STORY. 

(In old-time English costume.) 



DO my darlings want the story 
I have told so oft before, 
Of the little drummer laddie 

And his gallant deed of yore? 
But you love to hear about it? 

Aye, my children, that is well, 
Twas a bright and brave example 

Of the spirit that should dwell 
In the hearts of British children, 

Be they high or be they low; 
Just "Fear God and do your duty," 

It is all in that, you know. 

Little Jack — I think I see him, 

Stand as you are standing now, 
With his cap set trim and jaunty 

On the curls around his brow; 
He was but a child, my darlings, 

Not much older, Will, than you; 
And his cheeks were just as rosy, 

And his eyes were just as blue. 
Not a man of us but blessed him 

For the spirit kind and gay, 
That we never knew to fail him 

From the time we marched away. 

From the time his mother kiss'd him, 

As she held him to her heart, 
And he kept the childish tears back, 

Though God knows 'twas hard to part. 
Then the great ship bore us over 

The blue ocean, lone and wide, 
To the distant lands where many, 

Many a British soldier died. 
Many a mile our army plodded 

'Neath the burning foreign sun; 



Many a night we had no shelter 
When the toilsome day was done. 

Very often sick and hungry, 

We marched on in sorry plight; 
But in marching, or in halting, 

By the camp fire's blaze at night, 
Little Jack, the drummer laddie, 

Cheered us as we onward went; 
Making light of every hardship, 

Always blithesome and content, 
Full of boyish pranks and laughter, 

Full of kindly winsome ways, 
And his gallant spirit bore him 

Through the hardest, longest days. 

Not a man of us but loved him, 

Though we were but rough and wild, 
E'en Sir John, our grim old Colonel, 

On the drummer laddie smiled. 
But, at last, our march was ended, 

And, at last, we knew the foe 
We had come to fight was near us, 

In the valley down below. 
Well, thfc night before the battle 

Our young Captain spoke to me, 
Short and sharp, as was his custom, — 

"Sergeant Moore, that gap you see, 

Pick your men, and guard it strictly, 

Post a sentinel outside, 
And be smart, my man, about it" — 

And he turn'd away to ride. 
Up jumped Jack, the little drummer, 

"Sergeant Moore, you'll let me go?" 
And he looked with eyes beseeching, 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



73 



"I've sharp ears, as well you know." 
Aye, I knew it; not a hunter 

Of a red deer on the track, 
Was so keen and quick of hearing 

As our blithesome drummer Jack. 

So I took him, it was wrong, dears — 

He was such a child, ypu see, 
And 'twas older hands we wanted, 

And the captain trusted me. 
Down the dark defile we scrambled, 

And beyond the gap we saw 
Where the foe was camped before us; 

'Twas not wider than a door — 
That dark gap between two hillsides; 

And I saw if we could keep 
'Gainst the enemy its entrance, 

Safe that night our men might sleep. 

Little Jack crept just outside it; 

"I shall hear them if they stir," 
In my ear he whispered softly, 

As he leaned against a fir. 
"And you'll stay there!" I commanded, 

As I held him by the arm — 
"You'll not stir a step, my laddie, 

Save to give us the alarm!" 
And he answered, "Trust me, Sergeant, 

I'll not stir, or close an eye; 
'Twill be safe to-night — our army — 

Or I'll know the reason why." 

'Twas his safety that I thought of; 

Do you mark me, Bess and Will? 
I was fearful of his straying 

Into danger down the hill. 
For I knew his fearless spirit, 

And I meant he should abide 
Where, at lightest hint of danger, 

I could call him to my side. 
But 'twas long before the dawning 

That a breathless comrade came, 
Bidding us fall back, and quickly — 

Speaking in the captain's name. 



They'd not try to pass, he told us, 

As along the path we filed, 
And we all — may God forgive us! 

In our haste forgot the child. 
But not far had we proceeded 

Ere we heard the rolling boom, 
Up the narrow path behind us, 

Of our lad's familiar drum, 
Followed by the crack and rattle 

Of a rifle in our rear. 
So we turned upon the instant — 

(In our hearts an awful fear 
For the child we had deserted) — 

Face to face we met the foe. 
There were but a score of them, Will — 

How we cut them down, you know. 

On we went; some few were wounded; 

It was but the chance of war — 
'Till we heard a feeble drum-beat, 

And a well-known blithe "hurrah!" 
There was Jack beneath the fir tree, 

With a broken leg and arm, 
While, with but one hand, brave laddie, 

He was beating the alarm. 
Dropping shots, you see, had struck him, 

And he fainted, so he said, 
And the enemy had left him 

'Neath the dusky fir for dead. 

But he soon came to, and fearing 

They'd surprise us in the pass, 
On his drum he beat a warning 

As he lay upon the grass. 
"But what ailed you not to follow 

When you heard us move away!" 
Thus I asked him, sitting sadly 

By his little cot next day. 
"Follow you?" he cried. "Why, Sergeant, 

You had told me not to stir 
From the spot where I was posted, 

In the shelter of the fir. 

Could I disobey my orders? 
I was sentinel, you know, 



n 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



And you were not out of hearing 

When I caught a sound below; 
And the enemy was on me — 

I'd have beat you a tattoo 
If I'd had the time; but, Sergeant, 

I was hit before I knew. 
Then I tried to warn you after, 

Lest they took you by surprise; 
It was but my duty, Sergeant," 

Said the lad with shining eyes. 

Thus he saved our camp; we knew it; 

And the bravest in the land, 
When the boy got well, have said it, 

As they shook him by the hand. 
"But we cannot all be heroes;" 

Nay, my lad, you're right enough; 



But we can be brave and faithful, 
And, believe me, that's the stuff 

Which makes best and bravest soldiers. 
Strong to bear and swift to do — 

Are the boys who learn contentment, 
And are patient, kind and true. 

Don't make much of little hardships, 

Help a comrade when you can; 
You'll have many a foe to fight, Will, 

Ere you come to be a man. 
So will you, my darling Bessie, 

As to womanhood you grow; 
But "Fear God and do your duty," 

That's the safest rule I know. 

— Helen Marion Burnside. 



c5» c^* c5* 



THE REGULAR ARMY MAN. 



HE ain't no gold-laced "Belvidere,' 
Ter sparkle in the sun; 
He don't parade with gay cockade, 

And posies in his gun; 
He ain't no "pretty" soldier boy, 

So lovely, spick and span; 
He wears a crust of tan and dust, 
The Reg'lar Army man; 
The marchin', parching 
Pipe-clay starchin', 
Reg'lar Army man. 

He ain't at home in Sunday-school, 

Nor yet a social tea; 
And on the day he gets his pay 

He's apt ter spend it free ; 
He ain't no temp'rance advocate; 

He likes ter fill the can; 
He's kinder rough an', maybe, tough, 

The Reg'lar Army man; 
The rarin', tarin', 
Sometimes swearin', 

Reg'lar Army man. 



No State'll call him "noble son!" 

He ain't no ladies' pet, 
But let a row start anyhow, 

They'll send for him, you bet! 
He don't cut any ice at all 

In fash'n's social plan; 
He gits the job ter face a mob, 

The Reg'lar Army man; 
The milling drillin', 
Made for killin', 

Reg'lar Army man. 

They ain't no tears shed over him 

When he goes off ter war; 
He gits no speech nor prayerful "preach' 

From Mayor or Governor; 
He packs his little knapsack up 

And trots off in the van, 
Ter start the fight and start it right, 

The Reg'lar Army man; 
The rattlin', battlin', 
Colt or Gatlin', 

Reg'lar Army man. 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



75 



He makes no fuss about the job, 
He don't talk big- or brave, 

He knows he's in ter fight and win 
Or help fill up a grave; 

He ain't no "mamma's darlin'," but 
He does the best he can: 



And he's the chap that wins the scrap, 
The Reg'lar Army man; 
The dandy, handy, 
Cool and sandy, 
Reg'lar Army man. 

— Joe Lincoln. 



c^* o5* G?* 



WHEN THE SPANISH WAR BROKE OUT. 



HE gits roun' now on just one peg 
Ter beat the very Ian'! 
Thank God! he's only got one leg — 

They won't take my ol' man. 
(He lost that leg in our last war, 
But I could never tell whut fer.) 

I sets an' sees him hobblin' roun' — 
They's sojers passin' through, 

An' "Dixie's" wakin' up the town, 
An' "Yankee Doodle" too. 

I hears him holler, "Hip, hooray!" 

(Thank God! they can't take him away.) 

He seen his fightin' days. He went 

With Jackson an' with Lee. 
An' now he's come ter be content 



Ter set roun' home with me. 
He's lost one leg — that's gone shore. 
Thank God! he'll never lose no more. 

But when the ban' plays "Dixie" — my! 

It sets him wild ag'in! 
He cheers the boys a-trompin' by 

An' want's ter jine in! 
But I— I sez, "Come, that'll do! 
They don't want one-leg folks like you." 

So let 'em fight from left ter right 

All over sea an' land — 
I thank the Lord, by day an' night, 

They won't take my ol' man! 
He's lost one leg — that's gone fer shore. 
Thank God! he'll never lose no more. 



& 



THE SONG OF THE GUN. 



THE furnace was white with steel 
a-light, 
When my newborn spirit came 
In a molten flood of the war-god's blood, 
In a passion of fire and flame. 

I looked o'er the deep from a lofty steep 
With a strong heart full of pride ; 

Like a king alone on his stately throne 
Whose word no man denied. 

My thunder spoke from the battle smoke, 
When the waves ran crimson red, 

And heroes died by my iron side, 
Till the foreign foemen fled. 



The sentence of death was in my breath, 
And many a ship went down — 

Oh, the gun is lord of the feeble sword, 
And greater is his renown. 

Now the long grass hides my rusty sides, 
And round me the children play; 

But I dream by night of a last great fight, 
Ere the trump of the Judgment Day. 

For men must fight in the cause of right, 
Till the time when war shall cease; 

And the song of the gun will ne'er be done 
Till the dawn of lasting peace. 



76 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



THE TWO GREAT FLAGS. 



TWO proud flags to the skies unfurled, 
Types of an English-speaking- 
world; 
Types of the world that is yet to be, 
Rich and happy and proud and free; 
Types of a world of peace and law, 
Closer together in friendship draw! 
Can ye descry with the sight of seers, 
What shall be wrought in corning years? 
E'en but a century more will teach 
A thousand millions the English speech! 
Vast Australia, from sea to sea, 
Peopled all with our kin will be. 
Grand New Zealand, a busy hive, 
Britain in duplicate then, will thrive; 
While the Dark Continent, dark no more, 
Lighted with industry, law and love. 
India's boundless, human sea, 
Great and honored and justly free, 
India then shall speak the tongue 
Shakespeare uttered and Milton sung. 
What of Columbia's later fame? 
What for her can the century claim? 
Ask what the century past has done; 



Gaze on the triumphs that she has won. 
Give the imagination rein; 
People each tenantless hill and plain; 
Swell her borders, and all around, 
View the Republic, ocean bound! 
Yes, but a century more will teach 
A thousand millions the English speech. 
And, as the centuries onward roll, 
Earth shall feel it from pole to pole. 
Speech, the grandest that man has known, 
Gathering thought from every zone ; 
Law, the best that the human mind 
Ever devised to rule mankind; 
Literature, from every pen 
Ever wielded to gladden men, — 
Covering Earth like a whelming sea, 
Anglo-Saxon the world shall be. 
Two proud flags to the skies unfurled, 
Types of an English-speaking world; 
Types of the world that is yet to be, 
Types of a world of peace and law, — 
Close together in friendship draw! 

— Hubert M. Skinner. 



%5& fcT* t!7* 



THE "COWARD" IN BATTLE. 



THERE is a regiment with its right 
flank resting on the woods — its left 
in an open field near a group of haystacks. 
Three pieces of artillery in front have been 
playing in the pine thicket half a mile away 
for the last ten minutes, but without pro- 
voking any reply. 

Watch this man — this Second Lieuten- 
ant of Company F. He is almost a giant 
in size. He has a fierce eye, a roaring 
voice, and men have said that he was as 
brave as a lion. When the regiment was 
swung into position and the battery opened 
he said to himself: "How foolish in us to 
attack the enemy when he was seeking to 



retreat! This blunder will cost us many 
lives. Our fire will soon be returned, and it 
will be good-by to half our regiment. I 
shall be one of the first to fall. If I was 
one of the rear-rank privates, I'd give all 
the money I hope ever to have." 

As three— five — ten minutes pass away 
and the fire is not returned, the coward be- 
gins to pluck up heart. He blusters at the 
men, tries to joke with the officers on his 
right, and says to himself: "This may turn 
out all right after all. We are in no danger 
thus far, and if the enemy retreats we shall 
share the credit. I must try and make 
everybody believe that I am disappointed 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



77 



because we have not been ordered to ad- 
vance." 

Boom — shriek — crash! Now the enemy 
open fire in reply. They have six guns to 
answer three. In two minutes they have 
the range and a shell kills or wounds five 
or six men. The coward's cheeks grow 
pale. He whispers: "Great heavens; we 
shall all be slaughtered! Why doesn't the 
colonel order us to retire? Why are men 
kept here to be shot down in this way? 
What a fool I was not to go on the sick 
list last night! If it wasn't that so many 
are looking at me, I'd lie down to escape 
the fire!" 

Another shell — a third — fourth — fifth, 
and thirty or forty men have been killed. 
Men won't stand that long. They must 
either retreat or advance. 

"We shall advance," whispers the cow- 
ard. The order will come to dash forward 
and take those guns. Shot and shell and 
grape will leave none of us alive. What 
folly to advance! I hope I may be slightly 
wounded, so I shall have an excuse for 
seeking cover in some of these ditches." 



An aid rides up to the Colonel and gives 
an order. The Colonel rides to the head 
of his line and orders the lines dressed for 
an advance. The men dress under a hot 
fire, and the coward groans aloud: "It is 
awful to die this way! How idiotic in me 
to accept a commission — to enter the ser- 
vice — to put myself in front of certain 
death ! Oh, dear ! If I could only get some 
excuse for lagging behind!" 

The lines dash forward into the smoke — 
the enemy's fire grows more rapid — the 
dead and wounded strew the ground. 
Where and what of the coward? Three 
days later, the Colonel's report will read: 

"I desire to make special mention of 



Lieutenant 



As the 



ad- 



vanced, the Captain and First Lieutenant 
of Company F were killed by the same 
shell, leaving the Second Lieutenant of 
Company F in command. Fie was equal 
to the emergency. Springing to the head 
of the company, he encouraged the men, 
led them straight at the guns, two pieces of 
which were captured by the Company." 
A month later the coward was a Captain. 



t^» &5* t&* 



NATHAN HALE. 



SPEED, speed thee forth," said Wash- 
ington, 
On Harlem's battle plain, 

"For yonder lies the British foe, 
Bring back his plans of battle, Go!" 
The volunteer of twenty-one, 

Whose heart was never known to quail, 
Bowed — heard his orders, — bowed again, 
'Twas Captain Nathan Hale. 

One night when shone the harvest moon, 
His boat shot thro' the spray, 

Blithely across the starlit sound 
• To where upon Manhattan's ground 



The British were encamped, and soon 
The soldier-boy was on their trail — 

Captured their plans, — "Now for the fray," 
Cried fearless Nathan Hale. 

But e'er his noble task was done 
Within the foeman's bounds, 

A yell came up from Briton throats, 
He saw their shining scarlet coats — 
"What, ho ! a spy from Washington," 

Ah, Heaven, then was he doomed to 
fail; 
As round a hare spring famished hounds, 
They close round Nathan Hale. 



78 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



Condemned to death the hero lay 
With shackles on his limbs, 
And mem'ry brought New London 

town, 
His sweetheart with her curls of brown, 
His anxious mother, old and gray, 

Alas, how will they hear the tale. 
A welcome tear and blue eye dims 
Of valiant Nathan Hale. 

They led him forth 'mid gibes and jeers 
To meet the patriot's fate, 

The solace of God's Holy Word 
# He asked, but ne'er a Briton stirred, 
Their oaths still fell upon his ears, 

Their robber flag waved in the gale, 
Their eyes fired by revenge and hate 

Were fixed on Nathan Hale. 

Like bloodhounds eager for his gore 
They cried out, "Hang the spy." 
Undaunted there the hero stands, 
And lifting up his shackled hands, 



The while his captors raved and swore, 
A flush came o'er his cheek so pale 

"Back, cowards, I'll show you how to die," 
Cried noble Nathan Hale. 

"A hundred lives, ye knaves accurst 
I'd yield, and bliss were crowned, 

To burn that blood-stained rag o'erhead, 

And raise the Stars and Stripes instead. 
I'm ready now, fiends, do your worst, 

To Freedom's glorious dawn all hail !" 
The hangman's rope is thrown around 

The neck of Nathan Hale. 

Forgotten ? ne'er while Freedom's stars 
Shine forth in deathless light, 

From out the flag he loved so well, 
For which he lived and fought and fell. 
His guerdon was the soldier's scars. 

And death, far from his native vale — 
Brave heart, that throbbed for love and 
right, 
Brave soldier, Nathan Hale. 






GETTYSBURG, 1895. 



THE fields of Gettysburg are green 
Where once the red blood ran; 
The oak leaves throw a dancing sheen 

Where perished horse and man; 
The saplings whisper on the hill 

Where rolled a fiery tide, 
And songbirds splash the laughing 
Where armies fought and died. 

A marble sentry scans the field 

And granite cannons frown 
Where dusty regiments once wheeled 

And shot and shell rained down; 
But o'er the sentry's martial face 

Now sits the cooing dove, 
Breaking the silence of the place 

With murmuring notes of love. 



rill 



The only colors in the glades 

Are those of buds and flowers; 
The swift and sudden fusillades 

Are made by passing showers. 
Huge haycarts now are chariot cars, 

And soldiers, boys at play; 
The only camp fires are the stars, 

The fiery glory, day. 

Thank God that all things in this life 

Together move for right; 
That Night and her half-sister, Strife, 

Shall die in joy and light; 
That through a mystery above 

His mercies ne'er shall cease; 
That out of hate shall issue love, 

And out of war come peace. 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



79 



FLAG OF THE RAINBOW. 

This recitation may be made very effective if the National Flag be placed where it can be 

readily pointed to. The "Star Spangled Banner" might be played 

softly during the rendering of the poem. 



FLAG of the rainbow, and banner of 
stars, 
Emblem of light and shield of the lowly, 
Never to droop while our soldiers and tars 
Rally to guard it from outrage unholy. 

Never may shame or misfortune attend it, 
Enmity sully, or treachery rend it, 

While but a man is alive to defend it : 
Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. 

Flag of a land where the people are free, 
Ever the breezes salute and caress it ; 

Planted on earth, or afloat in the sea, 

Gallant men guard it, and fair women 
bless it. 



Fling out its folds o'er a country united, 



Warmed by the fires that our forefathers 
lighted, 
Refuge where down-trodden man is in- 
vited : 
Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. 

Flag that our sires gave in trust to their 
sons, 
Symbol and sign of a liberty glorious, 
While the grass grows and the clear water 
runs, 
Ever invincible, ever victorious. 

Long may it waken our pride and devotion, 
Rippling its colors in musical motion, 

First on the land, and supreme on the 
ocean : 
Flag of the rainbow, and banner of stars. 



«,£• c5* t(5* 



THE TORPEDO-BOAT. 



SHE'S a floating boiler crammed with 
fire and steam; 
A toy, with dainty works like any watch ; 
A working, weaving basketful of tricks — 
Eccentric, cam and lever, cog and notch. 
She's a dashing, lashing, tumbling shell of 
steel, 
A headstrong, kicking, nervous, plung- 
ing beast ; 
A long, lean ocean liner — trimmed down 
small ; 
A bucking broncho harnessed for the 
East. 
She can rear and toss and roll 
Your body from your soul, 

And she's most unpleasant wet — to say 
the least ! 



But see her slip in, sneaking down, at 
night ; 
All a-tremble, deadly, silent — Satan sly. 
Watch her gather for the rush, and catch 
her breath! 
See her dodge the wakeful cruiser's 
sweeping eye. 
Hear the humming! Hear her coming! 
Coming fast ! 
(That's the sound might make men wish 
they were at home, 
Hear the rattling Maxim, barking rapid 
fire), 
See her loom out through the fog with 
bows afoam! 
Then some will wish for land — 
They'd be sand fleas in the sand 

Or yellow grubs reposing in the loam. 



80 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



QUEBEC. 

(From "Songs of the Great Dominion.") 



OUEBEC! how regally it crowns the 
height, 
Like -a tanned giant on a solid throne! 
Unmindful of the sanguinary fight, 
The roar of cannon mingling with the 

moan 
Of mutilated soldiers years agone, 
That gave the place a glory and a name 
Among the nations. France was heard to 

groan; 
England rejoiced, but checked the proud 

acclaim, — 



A brave young chief had fall'n to vindi- 
cate her fame. 
Wolfe and Montcalm! two nobler names 

ne'er graced 
The page of history, or the hostile plain; 
No braver souls the storm of battle faced, 
Regardless of the danger or the pain. 
They passed unto their rest without a stain 
Upon their nature or their generous hearts. 
One graceful column to the noble twain 
Speaks of a nation's gratitude, and starts 
The tear that Valor claims and Feeling's 
self imparts. 



&7* c5* c5* 

TREKKING. 

Song of the Boer women. 



TREKKING trekking, trekking! Will 
never the trekk be done? 
Will never the rest, will never the home be 

won and forever won? 
Are we only as beasts of the jungle afoot 

for the fleeing prey, 
With a lair in the bush at midnight, on the 

veldt a trackless way? 
Ever the word is "onward" — ever our white 

train goes 
Deeper and deeper northward beyond the 

grasp of our foes — ■ 
Deeper and deeper northward our fathers 

went before, 
But the door of the veldt is closed, is closed ! 

Where can we trekk to more? 

Trekking, trekking, trekking! Think you 

we love not our home ? 
Think you my father prized not the farm 

of the yellow loam? 
And mother, I see her weeping beside my 

brother tall, 



Turning and gazing northward beyond the 

mountain wall. 
The cattle, they seem to be standing dumb 

in a brute despair ; 
With a longing look at the pastures they 

feel the trekk in the air ! 
Even old Yok seems broken ; he turns from 

the tempting bones ; 
I see him there in the corner, manlike, 

brooding alone ! 

Trekking, trekking, trekking! Through 
the Zululand we go, 

The midnight tiger stalking us, and ever the 
savage foe — 

Before — the savage foe to meet, the "red- 
coat" foe behind — 

What have we done to be blown about like a 
leaf upon the wind ? 

Ah, over the Vaal we shall find our peace — 
over the rushing Vaal — 

The Lord has led us to rest at last ; blindly 
we followed his call; 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



81 



The land he promised is ours to keep — is 

ours forever to keep — 
Piet, what noise is that in the fold ? Think 

you a wolf at the sheep ? 

Trekking, trekking, trekking! We have 

trekked till our tall, strong men 
Have sworn an oath by our father's God we 

shall never trekk again ! 
The doors of the northward veldt are 

closed; the doors of our heart are 

strong ; 



They shall ope their lock to a brother's 

knock, but not to the threat of wrong ! 
There is the gun your father bore when he 

climbed Majuba's hill; 
'Tis yours, Piet, to bear it now with your 

father's faith and will, 
For the land is ours — the land is ours — if 

ever a land was won; 
You go at the dawn, you say, my son ? Yes, 

go at the dawn, my son ! 

— John Jerome Rooney. 



tzfr £* *2fr 



DON'T CHEER, BOYS; THEY'RE DYING. 

When the Spanish ships were sinking at the battle of Santiago and the waters were thick 

with dead and dying Spaniards, the sailors on the United States battleship Texas 

began to cheer. Captain Philip checked them with these words : 

"Don't cheer, boys, the poor devils are dying." 



THE smoke hangs heavy o'er the sea, 
Beyond the storm-swept battle line, 
Where floats the flag of Stripes and Stars, 
Triumphant o'er the shattered foe. ■ 
The walls of Morro thunder still their fear ; 
Helpless, a mass of flame, the foeman 

drifts, 
And o'er her decks the flag of white. 
Hushed voices pass the word from lip to 

lip, 
And grimy sailors silent stand beside the 

guns, 
" Cease firing. An enemy is dying. 
Do not cheer.' , 



"An enemy is dying. Do not cheer." 
Thy servants' glorious tribute to Thy name, 
Christ, Lord, who rules the battle well, 
Who, watching, guards our destinies, 
And seeth e'en the sparrows fall. 
Redly, through the drifting smoke, the sun 

looks down 
On silent guns and shot-pierced bloody 

wreck, 
Long lines of weary men, with heads bowed 

low, 
Give thanks, in presence of Thy reaper 

grim. 
Thy will be done, O Lord, Thou rulest all. 



C^* <£& <&™ 

HOBSON AND HIS CHOSEN SEVEN. 



COME, kings and queens the world 
around, 
Whose power and fame all climes resound ! 
Come, sailors bold and soldiers brave, 
Whose names shall live beyond the grave ! 
Come, men and women, come, boys and 
girls, 



Wherever our flag to the breeze unfurls ! 
Come one, come all, let none stand back, 
Come, praise the men of the Merrimac! 
Out from the water, out from the fire, 
Out from the jaws of death most dire ! 
Far up in the fame and light of heaven, 
See Hobson with his chosen seven! 



82 



PATRIOTISM AND WAR. 



MARCHING SONG OF THE ROUGH RIDERS. 



ROUGH riders were we from the west, 
Gallant gentlemen the rest, 
Of volunteers the best; 
Rallied to the flag at Roosevelt's behest 
To carve our way to glory. 

When the Spanish shells and shrapnel 
burst, 
Our losses were the worst — 
The chaplain even cursed. 
"Charge!" cried Colonel Roosevelt, and 
charged the first 
To carve our way to glory. 

Our rapid fire tore the Spanish line to bits, 
And scared them into fits; 
Their leaders lost their wits; 



Up the hill we went and stormed their rifle 
pits 
To carve our way to glory. 

Intrenched within the pits long we lay, 

By night as well as day, 

Sore at the delay; 
In our rear the yellow fever raged at Sib- 
oney 

To cheat us out of glory. 

When no bloody Spaniards are left to run, 

Cuba will be won, 

Our duty will be done; 
Dead and living every single one 

Has carved his way to glory. 



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DE BUGLE ON DE HILL. 



IDOAN' like de noise er de marchin' ob 
de boys — 
An' I 'low I doan' s'pose I evah will — 
Er de trampin' ob de feet to de drum's 
wild beat, 
Er de blowin' ob de bugle on de hill. 
Hit minds me ob de day when Gabe 
marched away 
An' ole missus stood beside de cabin do'; 
Sumpin' whispahed in my eah 'bout my 
little volunteah, 
An' sade he nevah will come back no 
mo'. 

I's thinkin' mos' to-day ob how he marched 
away, 
Wid de bright sun a-climbin' up de sky; 
Marched out an' down the street to de 
drum's wild beat, 
An' den how dey fotched 'im home to 
die. 



Oh, de sad, moanful way missus bowed her 
head to pray, 
When Gabe said, "Hit's gittin' mighty 
•still, 
But I'll rise an' jine de boys when I heah 
de cannon's noise, 
Er de soun' ob de bugle on de hill!" 

Dar's a spot mighty deah to dis ole darky 
heah, 
Whar de sunshine am peekin' frough de 
palms. 
Wid his hands 'pon his breast dar my sol- 
dier's gone to rest, 
Jest peacefully a-sleepin' in de calms; 
An' de drum's wild beat er de tread ob 

marchin' feet 
I know cain't disturb 'im now until 
De Lo'd gibs command, den I know he'll 
rise an' stan' 
At de blowin' ob de bugle on de hill. 



This department has been selected and arranged with a view of providing the children 

with the kind of recitations they like. It embraces a wide variety — cute, pretty, 

funny, patriotic, and moral. Each piece has been -submitted to children 

who have taken part in public entertainments and has met with 

their enthusiastic approval. 

^^ t&& v& 

THE DOLL'S LESSON. 

A doll is seated in a small chair facing the audience. A little girl, wearing glasses and 
with a book in her hand, addresses the doll. 



WELL, little girl, you wish to come to 
school, do you? I hope you are 
a very good girl, and will not give me any 
trouble. What is your name? Lucy, is it? 
Well, Lucy, do you know your letters? 
Can you read and spell and write? You 
don't know anything, eh? How shocking! 
Well, then, I will try to teach you how to 
spell your name the first thing, because 
every little girl, when she is as big as you, 
ought to know how to spell her name. 
Lucy — that's an easy name to spell. Now 



say "L" — you can remember that if you'll 
just think of "Aunt El.;" then "U"— u, 
remember, not me — that's L-U. Next 
comes "C" — that's what you do with your 
eyes, you know— "C." L-U-C, and the 
last is "Y," that's easy— "Y." Why, of 
course! And now you have it all! — L (for 
Aunt El.)-U (not me)-C (with your 
eyes)-and Y (why, of course) — Lucy. 

That is very good. You'll soon be a 
good scholar, I see ! Now you may take a 
recess. 



c5* c5* t5* 



THE BAD LITTLE BOYS. 



THREE bad little boys kept wide 
awake 
Once on a Christmas Eve; 
Though their mothers tucked them up in 

bed 
And kissed and covered each curly head, 
They just played make-believe. 

"We'll wait and watch for Santa Claus, 
And we won't make any noise; 

And we'll see him drop 

From the chimney-top!" 
Said these wicked little boys. 



Then the house grew lonely — dark and 
still, 

And the fire died in the grate 
And the wind that over the chimney blew 
Wailed like a witch, and said: "You-oo 

Are sitting up too late." 

And the snow that pelted the window-pane 

Made faces at them all; 
And the clock on the mantel ticked, "Oh, 

ho! 
I know — I know— I know — I know!" 

And the shadows danced on the wall. 



85 



86 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



The clothes in the corner looked like 
ghosts 
With the shadows over them shed; 

And they wanted to scream, but they 

couldn't speak, 
For they heard the stairs go crickety- 

creak, 
Like the goblins were going to bed! 



And then — down the chimney came Santa 
Claus, 
Fresh from his snowy sleigh; 
But they thought 'twas a ghost from the 

goblin crowd, 
And all together they screamed so loud 
That they frightened him away! 

— Frank L. Stanton. 



■J$ <g <£ 



ABOUT FIRE CRACKERS. 



IF there were no fire crackers 
What could a small boy do 
To keep the nation's birthday? 
I do not know. Do you? 



How can I show my gladness 
For Independence Day, 

Unless with noisy crackers 
I bang and blaze away? 



(For a boy.) 

When I am a man like you, 

(Points to some one in the audience), 

I shall not make a noise, 

But instead, I'll sit and scold 

About those noisy boys. 



So, hurrah! I'm glad we shipped 
King George across the seas, 

If we hadn't, pray, what use 
Could I have had for these? 

(Palls a pack of fire-crackers out of each pocket and holds them up.) 

&3* t(5* t<7* 

THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. 



OH! the quietest home on earth had I, 
No thought of trouble, no hint of 
care; 
Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, 
And Peace had folded her pinions there. 
But one day there joined in our household 

band 
A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 

Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, 

And no one ventured to ask him why ; 
Like slaves we trembled before his might, 
Our hearts stood still when we heard 
him cry; 
For never a soul could his power with- 
stand, 



That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
land. 

He ordered us here, and he sent us there— 
Though never a word could his small 
lips speak — 
With his toothless gums and his vacant 
stare, 
And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, 
Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, 
''Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's- 
land." 

But his abject slaves they turned on me; 
Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend 
me there 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



87 



they worshiped with bended 
with the missing 



The while 
knee 
The ruthless wretch 
hair, 
For he rules them all with relentless hand, 
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
land. 



Then I searched for help in every clime, 
For Peace had fled from my dwelling 
now 

Till I finally thought of old Father Time, 
And low before him I made my bow. 

c5* c5* w* 



"Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, 
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
land?" 

Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, 
And a smile came over his features grim. 
I'll take the tyrant under my care: 

Watch what my hour-glass does to him. 
The veriest humbug that ever was 

planned. 
Is this same bald-head from No-man's- 
land. 



THE HOLE IN HIS POCKET 

GUESS what he had in his pocket. 
Marbles and tops and sundry toys 
Such as always belong to boys, 
A bitter apple, a leathern ball? 
Not at all. 



What did he have in his pocket? 
A bubble-pipe, and a rusty screw, 
A brass watch-key, broken in two, 
A fish-hook in a tangle of string?— 
No such thing. 



What did he have in his pocket? 

Ginger-bread crumbs, a whistle he made, 
Buttons, a knife with a broken blade, 
A nail or two and a rubber gun? — 
Neither one. 



What did he have in his pocket? 
Before he knew it slyly crept 
Under the treasures carefully kept, 
And away they all of them quickly stole — 
'Twas a hole! 



*0*i t&ft ^5* 



GEORGE WASHINGTON'S LITTLE HATCHET. 

(Told by Robert J. Burdette, the Preacher-Humorist, with occasional questions by a five- 
year-old hearer.) 



AND so, smiling, we went on. 
"Well, one day, George's father — " 

"George who?" asked Clarence. 

"George Washington. He was a little 
boy, then, just like you. One day his 
father—" 

"Whose father?" demanded Clarence, 
with an encouraging expression of interest. 

"George Washington's; this great man 
we are telling you of. One day George 
Washington's father gave him a little 
hatchet for a — " 



"Gave who a little hatchet?" the dear 
child interrupted with a gleam of bewitch- 
ing intelligence. Most men would have 
got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, 
but we didn't. We knew how to talk to 
children. So we went on: 

"George Washington. His — " 

"Who gave him the little hatchet?" 

"His father. And his father—" 

"Whose father?" 

"George Washington's." 

"Oh!" 



88 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



"Yes, George Washington. And his 
father told him—" 

"Told who?" 

"Told George." 

"Oh, yes, George." 

And we went on, just as patient and as 
pleasant as you could imagine. We took 
up the story right where the boy inter- 
rupted, for we could see he was just crazy 
to hear the end of it. We said : 

"And he was told—" 

"George told him?" queried Clarence. 

"No, his father told George — " 

"Oh!" 

"Yes; told him he must be careful with 
the hatchet—" 

"Who must be careful?" 

"George must." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes; must be careful with his hatch- 
et—" 

"What hatchet?" 

"Why, George's." 

"Oh!" 

"With the hatchet, and not cut himself 
with it, or drop it in the cistern, or leave 
it out in the grass all night. So George 
went round cutting everything he could 
reach with his hatchet. And at last he 
came to a splendid apple tree, his father's 
favorite, and cut it down and — " 

"Who cut it down?" 

"George did." 

"Oh!" 

"But his father came home and saw it 
the first thing, and — " 

"Saw the hatchet?" 

"No, saw the apple tree. And he said, 
'Who has cut down my favorite apple 
tree?' " 

"What apple tree?" 

"George's father's. And everybody said 
they didn't know anything about it, and — " 

"Anything about what?" 



"The apple tree." 

"Oh!" 

"And George came up and heard them 
talking about it — " 

"Heard who talking about it?" 

"Heard his father and the men." 

"What were they talking about?" 

"About this apple tree." 

"What apple tree?" 

"The favorite tree that George cut 
down." 

"George who?" 

"George Washington." 

"Oh!" 

"So George came up and heard them 
talking about it, and he — " 

"What did he cut it down for?" 

"Just to try his little hatchet." 

"Whose little hatchet?" 

"Why, his own, the one his father gave 
him." 

"Gave who?" 

"Why, George Washington." 

"Oh!" 

"So George came up and he said, 
'Father, I cannot tell a lie, I—' " 

"Who couldn't tell a lie?" 

"Why, George Washington. He said, 
'Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was — ' " 

"His father couldn't?" 

"Why, no; George couldn't." 

"Oh! George? oh yes!" 

"'It was I cut down your apple tree; I 
did—' " 

"His father did?" 

"No, no; it was George said this." 

"Said he cut his father?" 

"No, no, no; said he cut down his apple 
tree." 

"George's apple tree?" 

"No, no; his father's." 

"Oh!" 

"He said—" 

"His father said?" 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



89 



"No, no, no; George said. 'Father, I 
cannot tell a lie, I did it with my little 
hatchet.' And his father said: 'Noble 
boy, I would rather lose a thousand trees 
than have you tell a lie.' " 

"George did?" 

"No, his father said that." 

"Said he'd rather have a thousand apple 
trees?" 

"No, no, no; said he'd rather lose a 
thousand apple trees than — " 

"Said he'd rather George would?" 

"No, said he'd rather he would than 
have him lie." 



"Oh! George would rather have his 
father lie?" 

We are patient and we love children, but 
if Mrs. Caruthers hadn't come and got her 
prodigy at that critical juncture, we don't 
believe all Burlington could have pulled 
us out of the snarl. And as Clarence 
Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pat- 
tered down the stairs we heard him telling 
his ma about a boy who had a father named 
George, and he told him to cut down an 
apple tree, and he said he'd rather tell a 
thousand lies than cut down one apple 
tree. 



<£& t£& t£& 



THE AMERICAN BOY. 



LOOK up, my young American! 
Stand firmly on the earth, 
Where noble deeds and mental power 
Give titles over birth. 



A hallow'd land thou claim'st my 
By early struggles bought, 

Heaped up with noble memories, 
And wide, aye, wide as thought! 



boy, 



What though we boast no ancient towers 
Where "ivied" streamers twine, 

The laurel lives upon our soil, 
The laurel, boy, is thine. 



And though on "Cressy's distant field," 

Thy gaze may not be cast, 
While through long centuries of blood 

Rise spectres of the past, — 

The future wakes thy dreamings high, 
And thou a note mayst claim — 

Aspirings which in after times 
Shall swell the trump of fame. 

And when thou'rt told of knighthood's 
shield 

And English battles won, 
Look up, my boy, and breathe one word — ■ 

The name of Washington. 



c5* «.£• t<5* 



MRS. RABBIT'S SCHOOL. 



MRS. RABBIT had a school 
Of little bunnies, five; 
Said she: "I think each one's a fool, 
As sure as I'm alive. 

"I've tried to teach them numbers, 
I've tried to make them sing, 

And now the term is almost out, 
They haven't learned a thing." 



Committee came, one day, to see 
If they were doing well 

She told him how, of all the five, 
Not one could read or spell. 

Said he: "My friend, I do believe 

Of time it is a waste 
To try and teach a rabbit, 

And not consult his taste." 



90 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



So, he took away their "Primers," 

And in each little paw 
He placed — now what do you suppose? 

A good-sized turnip, raw. 



& 



How they got on, I cannot tell, 

But this, I know, is true: 
When school was out, they knew as much 

As other rabbits do. 

— "Treasure Trove" 



LITTLE BY LITTLE. 



ONE step and then another, and the 
longest walk is ended; 
One stitch and then another, and the wid- 
est rent is mended; 
One brick upon another, and the highest 

wall is made; 
One flake upon another, and the deepest 
snow is laid. 



Then do not frown nor murmur at the 

work you have to do, 
Or say that such a mighty task you never 

can get through; 
But just endeavor, day by day, another 

point to gain, 
And soon the mountain that you feared 

will prove to be a plain. 



c?* t£& to* 



A HUMAN QUESTION POINT. 



SIXTY questions make an hour, 
One for every minute; 
And Neddy tries, with all his might, 
To get more questions in it. 

Sixty questions make an hour, 

And as for a reply; 
The wisest sage would stand aghast 

At Neddy's searching "Why?" 



Sixty questions make an hour, 
And childhood's hours are brief; 

So Neddy has no time to waste, 
No pauses for relief. 

Sixty questions make an hour, 
Presto! Why, where is Ned? 

Alas, he's gone, and in his place 
A Question Point instead! 



t£* t£* fc5* 



ONLY A BOY 



ONLY a boy with his noise and fun, 
The veriest mystery under the sun; 
As brimful of mischief and wit and glee, 
As ever a human frame can be, 
And as hard to manage — what! ah me! 
'Tis hard to tell, 
Yet we love him well. 

Only a boy with his fearful tread, 
Who cannot be driven, must be led! 
Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, 



And tears more clothes and spoils more 

hats, 
Loses more kites and tops and bats 

Than would stock a store 

For a week or more. 

Only a boy with his wild, strange ways, 
With his idle hours or his busy days, 
With his queer remarks and his odd replies, 
Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise, 
Often brilliant for one of his size, 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



9i 



As a meteor hurled 
From the planet world. 

Only a boy who may be a man 

If nature goes on with her first great plan — 

If intemperance or some fatal snare 



Conspires not to rob us of this our heir, 
Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our 
care, 

Our torment, our joy! 

"Only a boy!" 



t(5* &5* <<5* 



DONT. 



I BELIEVE, if there is one word that 
grown-up folks are more fond of using 
to us little folks, than any other word in 
the big dictionary, it is the word D-o-n-t. 

It is all the time "Don't do this," and 
"Don't do that/' and "Don't do the other," 
until I am sometimes afraid there will be 
nothing left that we can do. 

Why, for years and years and years, ever 
since I was a tiny little tot, this word 
"Don't" has been my torment. It's "Liz- 
zie, don't make a noise, you disturb me," 
and "Lizzie, don't eat so much candy, it 
will make you sick," and "Lizzie, don't be 
so idle," and "Don't talk so much," and 
"Don't soil your clothes," and "Don't 
everything else." One day I thought I'd 
count how many times I was told not to do 
things! Just think! I counted twenty- 
three "don'ts," and I think I missed two or 
three little ones besides. 



But now it is my turn. I have got a 
chance to talk, and I'm going to tell some 
of the big people when to Don't! That 
is what my piece is about. First, I shall 
tell the papas and mammas — Don't scold 
the children, just because you have been at 
a party the night before, and so feel cross 
and tired. Second, Don't fret and make 
wrinkles in your faces, over things that 
cannot be helped. I think fretting spoils 
big folks just as much as it does us little 
people. Third, Don't forget where you put 
your scissors, and then say you s'pose the 
children have taken them. Oh! I could 
tell you ever so many "don'ts," but I think 
I'll only say one more, and that is — Don't 
think I mean to be saucy, because all these 
don'ts are in my piece, and I had to say 
them. 

— E. C. Rook. 






LITTLE BOY BLUE. 

(The children's favorite recitation.) 



THE little toy dog is covered with dust, 
But sturdy and stanch he stands; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 

And his musket molds in his hands. 
Time was, when the little toy dog was new, 

And the soldier was passing fair, 
And that is the time when our Little Boy 
Blue 
Kissed them and put them there. 



"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 

"And don't you make any noise!" 
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, 

He dreamt of the pretty toys. 
And as he was dreaming, an angel song 

Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
O, the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true. 



92 



JUVENILE GEMS. 
to Little Boy Blue, they 



Aye, faithful 
stand, 

Each in the same old place, 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face. 



And they wonder, as waiting these long 
years through 
In the dust of that little chair, 
What has become of our Little Boy Blue 
Since he kissed them, and put them 
there. — Eugene Field. 



iG* £* *?• 



THE DOLL QUEEN. 



THE little rag doll is queen — 
Her realm is a maiden's heart, 
And there she will reign serene, 
And play the important part. 
A bundle of rags is she, 

With collar of scraggy fur; 
She's only a doll to me, 
But more than a doll to her. 

A doll that I thought a prize 

I gave to the little maid, 
That opened and shut its eyes, 

And beauty of face displayed; 
But somehow it seemed to me 

She never received the care 
I daily and hourly see 

Bestowed on a doll less fair. 



The doll that can really talk, 

The doll in the silken dress, 
The doll that is made to walk, 

Lies lonely in some recess; 
Forgotten and pushed aside, 

It lies in the dust apart, 
While that of the rags in pride 

Is held to the maiden's heart. 

The doll is a doll to me, 

A bundle of rags and fur, 
And yet I am quick to see 

It's more than a doll to her; 
And so it maintains its place, 

Unrivaled itliolds its own; 
In rags and a painted face 

It stands in her heart alone. 



tO* *£& fc5* 



THE DOLL'S FUNERAL. 



WHEN my dolly died, when my dolly 
died, 
I sat on the step and cried, and I cried; 
And I couldn't eat any jam and bread, 
'Cause it didn't seem right when my doll 

was dead. 
And Bridget was sorry as she could be, 
For she patted my head and "Oh," said 

she, 
"To think that the pretty has gone and 

died!" 
Then I broke out afresh, and I cried and 

cried. 



And all the dollies from all around 
Came to see my doll put under the ground; 
There were Lucy and Mary Clack 
Brought their dolls over all dressed in 

black. 
And Emmeline Hope and Sara Lou 
Came over and brought their dollies, too. 
And all the time I cried, and cried, 
'Cause it hurt me so when my dolly died. 

We dressed her up in a new white gown, 
With ribbons and laces all around; 
And made her coffin in a box 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



93 



Where my brother keeps his spelling 

blocks, 
And we had some prayers, and a funeral, 

too; 
And our hymn was "The Two Little Girls 

in Blue/' 
But for me, I only cried and cried, 
'Cause it truly hurt when my dolly died. 

We dug her a grave in the violet bed, 

And planted violets at her head; 

And we raised a stone and wrote quite 

plain: 
"Here lies a dear doll who died of pain." 



And then my brother he said "Amen," 
And we all went back to the house again. 
But all the time I cried and cried, 
Because 'twas right when my doll had died. 

And then we had more jam and bread, 
But I didn't eat 'cause my doll was dead. 
But I tied some crape on my dollhouse 

door, 
And then I cried and cried some more. 
I couldn't be happy, don't you see! 
Because the funeral belonged to me. 
And then the others went home and then 
I went out and dug up my doll again. 



t^r* C<5* fc?* 



WHEN MAMMA CLEANS HOUSE. 



OUR folks have been cleaning house — 
and, oh! it is just dreadful, I think! 
Why, a little girl might just as well haye 
no mamma as to have a mamma who is 
cleaning house. She does not have any 
time to tend to me at all. She ties her head 
up in an old apron, and wears an ugly old 
dress, and she don't look a bit pretty. Then 
she pulls everything out of its place, and 
the house looks — oh! so bad. We do not 
have any good dinners, either 'cause 
there's no time to stop to get them ready. 
And I cannot find my dear Margaret that 



was broken a little, and the sawdust ran 
out of her. Mamma said she made so 
much dirt that she must be burnt up, and 
oh! I'm afraid that is where she has gone. 
And ever so many of my playthings are 
lost — lost in the housecleaning. What if 
they were old and broken! I loved them. 
So is it any wonder I think housecleaning 
is a dreadful thing? 

When I grow up to be a big woman, I 
mean never to clean house at all, but be 
just as dirty and happy as I can. What's 
the world made of if it isn't made of dirt? 



c5* t&& £fr 



JACK AND 

A GAY little rabbit, 
Of frolicsome habit, 
Went out for a cool midnight stroll; 
And a strange fixture meeting, 
Though it set his heart beating, 
"Dear me!" said the rabbit, "how droll!" 

He stopped for a minute, 

To see what was in it. 

And nibbled a bit at the bait; 



THE RABBIT. 

Very tempting he found it, 

He walked all around it, 

And then he went in at the gate. 

But quicker than winking, 

And quicker than thinking, 

Master Rabbit was swung on high, 

And not a bit tardy, 

Came little Jack Hardy 

From where he'd been hiding close by. 



94 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



The old moon was crying, 

The pine-trees were sighing, 

And I think that the stars were in tears, 

As into his casket, 

Jack's snug, covered basket, 

Poor Bunny was dropped by the ears. 



Then Jack fled the gateway, 
In order that straightway 
Some other good game he might trap, 
When Bunny kicked over 
The basket and cover, 
And scampered off to his home and his 
wife! 



<<5* t^» t<5* 

VALEDICTORY. 



THE golden glow of a summer's day 
Rests over the verdant hills, 
And the sunlight falls with mellow ray 

On fields and laughing rills; 
But ere its last beam fades away 

Beyond the mountain high, 
Our lips must bravely, sadly say 
The parting words, "Good-bye." 

Kind friends and parents gathered here, 

Our gratitude is yours 
For all your care and sympathy, 

Which changelessly endures. 
We'll try to use the present hours 

So they will bring no sigh, 
When to our happy days of school 

We say our last "Good-bye." 



Dear teacher, we shall ne'er forget 

The lessons you have taught: 
We trust the future may perfect 

The work your hands have wrought; 
And may they bring good gifts to you, 

These years that swiftly fly, 
And may you kindly think of those 

Who bid you now "Good-bye." 

"Good-bye!" it shall not be farewell — 

We hope again to meet; 
But happy hours are ever short, 

And days of youth are fleet. 
There's much to learn and much to do. 

Oh, may our aims be high, 
And ever lead toward that bright land, 

Where none shall say "Good-bye." 



COULDN'T TAKE THE HINT. 



YOUNG SPOONOGLE never knows 
when to leave when he calls on a 
young lady; he likes the sound of his own 
voice so well that he talks on and on, while 
the poor girl grows light-headed with the 
tax on her strength and wishes the mantle- 
piece of Elijah would fall on the tiresome 
caller. 

There is a young lady in a certain city 
who made up her mind to give Spoonogle 
a lesson. So one Sunday night when he 
called, she was as cordial as possible up to 
eleven o'clock. Then, having had a four- 
volume history of Spoonogle's life, with an 



extended account of his influence in politics 
and business, she began to get dizzy and 
have a ringing in her ears. At that mo- 
ment her young brother rushed into the 
room, and said hurriedly: 

"Pa wants the morning papers, sis!" 

"Look in the vestibule, Willie," she 
answered gently. "I think I heard the boy 
leaving them some hours ago." 

Spoonogle never took the hint, but 
drawled on about one thing and another 
in which the oft-repeated letter I, as usual, 
bore a conspicuous part. 

The next interruption was the head of- 



JUVENILE OEMS. 



95 



the house, who entered briskly rubbing his 
hands. "Good morning — good morning," 
he said cheerily. "Ha! Spoonogle, you're 
out early. Well, 'early bird catches the 
worm.' It's going to be a fine day, from 
present appearances." 

Spoonogle was dazed, but he concluded 
the old man had been drinking, and sat 
back with a "Come one, come all, this rock 
shall fly from its firm base as soon as yours 
truly" air that was decided and convinc- 
ing. 



A half hour passed away, and the good 
mother hurried in. 

"Dear me! I'm late," she said as she en- 
tered, "I smelled the coffee an hour ago 
and knew breakfast was waiting; but — oh! 
Good morning, Mr. Spoonogle!" Then 
the sweet youth took the hint, and drawing 
himself together, he got out into the hall 
and opened the front door, just as the 
hired girl rung a bell, and the small boy 
yelled "Breakfast!" over the banisters. 






LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE. 



LITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our 
house to stay, 
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, and 

brush the crumbs away, 
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' 

dust the hearth, an' sweep, 
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' 

earn her board and keep; 
An' all us other children, when the supper 

things is done, 
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the 

mostest fun 
A-list'nin' to the witch tales 'at Annie tells 

about, 
An' the gobble-uns 'at gits you 
Ef you 
Don't 

Watch 
Out! 

Onct they was a little boy wouldn't say his 

pray'rs — 
An' when he went to bed at night, away 

up-stairs, 
His mammy heard him holler, an' his 

daddy heard him bawl, 
An' when they turned the kivvers down he 

wasn't there at all! 



An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' 

cubby-hole, an' press, 
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' 

everywheres, I guess, 
But all they ever found was this — his pants 

an' round-about — 
An' the gobble-uns '11 git you 
Ef you 
Don't 

Watch 
Out! 

An' one time a little girl 'ud alius laugh an' 

grin, 
An' make fun of ever' one an' all her blood 

an' kin. 
An' onct, when they was "company," an' 

old folks was there, 
She mocked 'em, an' shocked 'em, an' said 

she didn't care! 
An' jist as she kicked her heels an' turn't 

to run an' hide, 
They was two great Big Black Things 

a-standin' by her side, 
An' they snatched her through the ceilin', 

'fore she knowed what she's about! 
An' the gobble-uns '11 git you 



96 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



Ef you 
Don't 

Watch 
Out! 

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the 

blaze is blue, 
An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind 

goes Woo-oo! 
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the 

moon is gray, 
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all 



squenched away — 
You better mind your parents and yer 

teachers fond an' dear, 
An' cherish them 'at loves you, and dry 

the orphant's tear, 
An' he'p the po' an' needy ones 'at clusters 

all about, 
Er the gobble-uns '11 git you 
Ef you 
Don't 

Watch 
Out! 



c5* o5* *£& 



MABEL AND HER MOTHER. 



AT her easel, brush in hand, 
Clad in silk attire, 
Painting "sunsets" vague and grand 

(Clumsy clouds of fire!) 
Flaxen hair in shining sheaves; 

Pink and pearly skin; 
Fingers, which, like lily leaves, 

Neither toil nor spin; — 
At her belt a sun-flower bound, 

Daisies on the table, 
Plaques and panels all around — 

That's aesthetic Mabel! 



In the kitchen, fork in hand, 

Clad in coarse attire, 
Dishing oysters, fried and panned, 

From a blazing fire: 
Dusty hair in frowsy knots; — 

Worn and withered skin; — 
Fingers brown and hard as nuts, 

(When the frosts begin;) — 
Baking-board, one side aground; 

Washtub, on the other; 
Pots and skillets all around, — 

That is Mabel's mother! 



<&* t&* t&i 



THE FARMER'S LIFE. 



First Boy. 

THIS is the way the happy farmer 
Plows his piece of ground, 
(Extend arms forward as though holding 

a plow.) 
That from the little seeds he sows 
A large crop may abound. 

This is the way he sows the seed, 
(Make motion as of taking seed out of a 
bag and scattering with the right 
hand.) 



(For Four Boys.) 

Dropping with careful hand, 
In all the furrows well prepared 
Upon the fertile land. 



This is the way he cuts the grain 

(Make motion as of cutting with a scythe.) 

When bending with its weight; 
And thus he bundles it in sheaves, 
(Arms curved dowmvard and extended for- 
ward.) 

Working long and late. 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



97 



And then the grain he threshes thus 
(Hands as though grasping a Hail, 
strike with force.) 
And stores away to keep; 



and 



And thus he stands contentedly 
(Stand straight, arms folded and smile on 
face.) 
And views the plenteous heap. 



c5* C<5* t(7* 



BE IN EARNEST. 



NEVER be ashamed to say, "I do not 
know." Men will then believe you 
when you say, "1 do know." Never be 
ashamed to say, "I can't afford it;" "I 
can't afford to waste time in the idleness to 
which you invite me;" or "I can't afford 
the money you ask me to spend." Never 
affect to be other than you are — either 
wiser or richer. 

Learn to say "No" with decision; "Yes" 
with caution. "No" with decision when- 



ever it resists temptation; "Yes" with 
caution whenever it implies a promise; for 
a promise once given is a bond inviolable. 
A man is already of consequence in the 
world when it is known that we can im- 
plicitly rely upon him. Often have I 
known a man to be preferred in stations of 
honor and profit because he had this repu- 
tation; when he said he knew a thing, he 
knew it; and when he said he would do a 
thing, he did it. 



<£* &5* t(5% 



THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK. 



I'M nine years old! an' you can't guess 
how much I weigh, I bet! 
Last birthday I weighed thirty-three! An' 

I weigh thirty yet! 
I'm awful little for my size — I'm purt' 

nigh littler 'an 
Some babies is! — an' neighbors all calls 

me "The Little Man!" 
An' Doc one time he laughed and said: 

"I 'spect, first thing you know, 
You'll have a spike-tail coat an' travel with 

a show!" 
An' nen I laughed — till I looked round 

an' Aunty was a-cryin' — 
Sometimes she acts like that, 'cause I got 

"curv'ture of the spine!" 

I set — while Aunty's washing — on my little 

long-leg stool, 
An' watch the little boys and girls a-skip- 

pin' by to school; 



An' I peck on the winder an' holler out 

an' say: 
"Who wants to fight the little man 'at dares 

you all to-day?" 
An' nen the boys climbs on the fence, an' 

little girls peeks through, 
An' they all says : " 'Cause you're so big, 

you think we're 'feared o' you?" 
An' nen they yell, and shake their fist at 

me, like I shake mine — 
They're thist in fun, you know, 'cause I 

got "curv'ture of the spine!" 

At evening, when the ironin's done, an' 

Aunty's fixed the fire, 
An' filled an' lit the lamp, and trimmed the 

wick an' turned it higher, 
An' fetched the wood all in fer night, an' 

locked the kitchen door, 
An' stuffed the ole crack where the wind 

blows in up through the floor — 



98 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



She sets the kittle on the coals, an' biles 

an' makes the tea, 
An' fries the liver an' mush, an' cooks a 

egg fer me; 
An' sometimes — when I cough so hard — 

her elderberry wine 
Don't go so bad fer little boys with "curv'- 

ture of the spine." 

But Aunty's all so childish like, on my 

account, you see, 
I'm 'most feared she'll be took down — > 

an' 'at's what bothers me — 



'Cause ef my good ole Aunty ever would 
git sick an' die, 

I don't know what she'd do in Heaven — 
till I come, by an' by, 

For she's so ust to all my ways, an' every- 
thing, you know, 

An' no one there like me, to nurse, an' 
worry over so — 

'Cause all the little childrens there's so 
straight an* strong an' fine, 

They's nary angel 'bout the place with 
"curv'ture of the spine." 

— James Whitcomb Riley. 



<£* 6$* «5* 



EVENING AT THE FARM. 



OVER the hill the farm-boy goes, 
His shadow lengthens along the 
land, 
A giant staff in a giant hand; 
In the poplar-tree, about the spring, 
The katydid begins to sing; 

The early dews are falling; 
Into the stone heap darts the mink; 
The swallows skim the river's brink; 
And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
When over the hill the farm-boy goes, 
Cheerily calling, 
"Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
Farther, farther, over the hill, 
Faintly calling, calling still, 
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" 

Into the yard the farmer goes, 
With grateful heart, at the close of day; 
Harness and chain are hung away ; 
In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; 
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the 
mow, 
The cooling dews are falling: 
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, 
The pigs come grunting to his feet, 
The whinnying mare her master knows, 



When into the yard the farmer goes, 
His cattle calling: 
"Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
While still the cow-boy, far away, 
Goes seeking those that have gone as- 
tray — 
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" 

Now to her task the milkmaid goes, 

The cattle come crowding through the 

gate, 
Lowing, pushing, little and great; 
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, 
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, 
While the pleasant dews are falling: 
The new milch heifer is quick and shy, 
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, 
And the white stream into the bright pail 

flows, 
When to her task the milkmaid goes, 
Soothingly calling, 
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" 
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 
And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 
Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!" 

To supper at last the farmer goes, 
The apples are pared, the paper read, 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



99 



The stories are told, then all to bed. 
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song 
Makes shrill the silence all night long; 

The heavy dews are falling. 
The housewife's hand has turned the lock; 
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; 
The household sinks to deep repose, 



But still in his sleep the farm-boy goes 
Singing, calling — 
"Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, 
Drums in the pail with the flashing 
streams, 
Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" 



t&& f&fr *2r* 



ARATHUSA'S BROTHER JACK. 



MY name's Jack. I'm eight years old. 
I've a sister Arathusa, and she calls 
me a little torment. I'll tell you why: You 
know Arathusa has got a beau, and he 
comes to see her every night, and they turn 
the gas 'way, 'way down 'till you can't 
hardly see. I like to stay in the room with 
the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites 
me out of the room every night. 

I checked her once, you better believe. 
You know she went to the door to let Al- 
phonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. 
Then they came in, and it got awful dark, 
and they sat down on the sofa, and I 
couldn't hear nothing but smack! smack! 
smack! Then I reached out and jerked 
Arathusa's foot. Then she jumped and said 
"Oh, mercy, what's that?" and Alphonso 
said she was a "timid little creature." "Oh, 
Alphonso, I'm happy by your side, but 
when I think of your going away it almost 
breaks my heart." 

c<5* ^5* c5* 



Then I snickered right out, I couldn't 
help it, and Arathusa got up, went and 
peeked through the keyhole and said, "I 
do believe that's Jack, nasty little torment, 
he's always where he isn't wanted." Do 
you know this made me mad, and I crawled 
out from under the sofa and stood up be- 
fore her and said, "You think you are smart 
because you have got a beau. I guess I 
know what you've been doing; you've been 
sitting on Alphonso's lap, and letting him 
kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. 
You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If 
it hadn't been for that old false front of 
yours, pa would have let me have a bicycle 
like Tom Clifford's. You needn't be grind- 
ing them false teeth of yours at me, I ain't 
a-going out of here. I ain't so green as I 
look. I guess I know a thing or two. I 
don't care if you are twenty-eight years 
old, you ain't no boss of me!" 



SHE DIDN'T WANT MUCH. 



I WANTS a piece of cal'co 
To make my doll a dess; 
I doesn't want a big piece; 

A yard'll do, I guess. 
I wish you'd fred my needle, 
And find-my fimble, too — 
I has such heaps o' sewin' 
I don't know what to do. 
L.fC. 



I wants my Maud a bonnet 

She hasn't none at all; 
And Fred must have a jacket; 

His ozzer one's too small. 
I wants to go to grandma's; 

You promised me I might. 
I know^ she'd like to see me; 

I wants to go to-night. 



100 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



She lets me wipe the dishes, 

And see in grandpa's watch — 
I wish I'd free, four pennies 

To buy some butter-scotch. 
My Hepsy tored her apron 

A tum'lin down the stair, 
And Caesar's lost his pantloons. 

And needs anozer pair. 

I wants some newer mittens — 
I wish you'd knit me some, 

'Cause most my ringers freezes, 
They leaks so in the fum. 



I wored 'em out last summer, 

A pullin' George's sled; 
I wish you wouldn't laugh so — 

It hurts me in my head. 

I wish I had a cookie; 

I'm hungry's I can be. 
If you hasn't pretty large ones, 

You'd better bring me free. 
I wish I had a p'ano — 

Won't you buy me one to keep? 
O, dear! I feels so tired, 

I wants to go to sleep. 



K&* 1&fr C7* 



PATIENCE WORKS WONDERS. 



IF a string is in a knot, 
Patience will untie it. 
Patience can do many things; 
Did you ever try it? 



If 'twas sold at any shop 

I should like to buy it; 
But you and I must find our own; 

No other can supply it. 






KITTY IN SCHOOL. 



COME, Kitty, I'll tell you what 
We'll do this rainy day; 
Just you and I, all by ourselves, 
At keeping school, will play. 

The teacher, Kitty, I will be; 

And you shall be the class; 
And you must close attention give, 

If you expect to pass. 

No, Kitty, "C-A-T" spells "cat." 
Stop playing with you tail! 

Your are so heedless, I am sure. 
In spelling you will fail. 

"C-A" oh, Kitty! do sit still! 

You must not chase that fly! 
You'll never learn a single word, 

You do not even try. 



I'll tell you what my teacher says 

To me most ev'ry day- 
She says that girls can never learn 

While they are full of play. 

So try again — another word; 

"L-A-C-E" spells "lace." 
Why, Kitty, it is not polite 

In school to wash your face! 

You are a naughty, naughty puss, 

And keep you in I should; 
But then, I love you, dear, so much 

I don't see how I could! 

Oh, see! the sun shines bright again! 

We'll run out doors and play; 
We'll leave our school and lessons for 

Another rainy day. 

— Kate Ulmer. 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



103 



THE SMALL BOY'S TROUBLES. 



BEFORE they had arithmetic 
Or telescopes or chalk 
Or blackboards, maps and copybooks, 
When they could only talk ; 

Before Columbus came to show 

The world geography, 
What did they teach the little boys 

Who went to school like me? 

There wasn't any grammar then, 
They couldn't read or spell, 

For books were not invented, yet 
I think 'twas just as well; 

There were not any rows of dates 

Or laws or wars or kings 
Or generals or victories 

Or any of those things ; 



There couldn't be much to learn, 
There wasn't much to know ; 

'Twas nice to be a boy 
Ten thousand years ago. 

For history had not begun, 

The world was very new, 
And in the schools I don't see what 

The children had to do. 

Now always there is more to learn; 

How history does grow ! 
And every day they find new things 

They think we ought to know. 

And if it must go on like this 

I'm glad I live today, 
For boys ten thousand years from now 

Will not have time to play! 

— Answers. 



t&* V£& t(5* 

A SONG FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY. 



UPON the day each child is born, 
Each year, so runs the tale, 
An angel in the early morn 
Its birthday comes to hail. 



And for each deed of holy love 
That last year thou hast done, 

He brings a kiss from heaven above 
And seals thee for his own. 



%c& *?* *5* 



WHEN PA BEGINS TO SHAVE. 



WHEN Sunday mornin' comes around 
My pa hangs up his strop, 
An' takes his razor out an' makes 

It go c'flop! c'flop! 
An' then he gits his mug an' brush 

An' yells t' me, "Behave!" 
I tell y'u, things is mighty still — 
When pa begins t' shave. 

Then pa he stirs his brush around 

An' makes th' soapsuds fly; 
An' sometimes, when he stirs too hard, 

He gits some in his eye. 



I tell y'u, but it's funny then 

To see pa stamp and rave; 
But y'u mustn't git ketched laffin' — 

When pa begins t' shave. 

Th' hired hand he dassent talk, 

An' even ma's afeared, 
An' y'u can hear th' razor click 

A-cuttin' through pa's beard! 
An' then my Uncle Bill he laffs 

An' says: "Gosh! John, you're brave," 
An' pa he swears, an' ma jest smiles — 

When pa begins t' shave. 



104 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



When pa gits done a-shavin' of 

His face,, he turns around, 
And Uncle Bill says: "Why, John, 

Yu'r chin looks like plowed ground!" 



An' then he laffs— jest laffs an' laffs, 

But I got t' behave, 
Cos things's apt to happen quick — 

When pa begins t' shave. 

— Harry Douglass Robbins. 



1&hI t£& fc5* 



THAT'S OUR BABY. 



ONE little row of ten little toes, 
To go along with a brand-new nose, 
Eight new fingers and two new thumbs, 
That are just as good as sugar-plums — 

That's baby. 

One little pair of round new eyes, 
Like a little owl's, so old and wise, 
One little place they call a mouth, 
Without one tooth from north to south — 

That's baby. 



Two little cheeks to kiss all day, 
Two little hands, so in his way, 
A brand-new head, not very big, 
That seems to need a brand-new wig— 

That's baby. 

Dear little row of ten little toes, 
How much we love them nobody knows ; 
Ten little kisses on mouth and chin, 
What a shame he wasn't a twin!— 

That's baby. 



fc?* t£& *£& 



HAVE ONLY GOOD WORDS FOR ALL. 



IF anything unkind you hear 
About someone you know, my dear, 
Do not, I pray you, it repeat, 
When you that someone chance to meet; 
For such news has a leaden way 
Of clouding o'er a sunny day. 



But if you something pleasant hear 
About someone you know, my dear, 
Make haste — to make great haste 'twere 

well — 
To her or him the same to tell; 
For such news has a golden way 
Of lighting up a cloudy day. 



«5* «<$» v5* 



THE FIVE LITTLE CHICKENS. 



SAID the first little chicken, 
With a queer little squirm, 
"I wish I could find 
A fat little worm." 

Said the next little chicken, 
With an odd little shrug, 

"I wish I could find 
A fat little slug." 



Said the third little chicken, 
With a sharp little squeal, 

"I wish I could find 

Some nice yellow meal." 

Said the fourth little chicken, 
With a small sigh of grief, 

"I wish I could find 
A little green leaf." 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



105 



Said the fifth little chicken, 
With a faint little moan, 

'Twish I could find 
A wee gravel stone." 



"Now, see here," said the mother 
From the green garden patctr 

"If you want any breakfast, 
Just come here and scratch." 



c$* e£* ?£* 



WHAT LITTLE THINGS CAN DO. 



A TINY drop of water, 
Within the ocean lay, 
A coaxing sunbeam caught her, 

And bore her far away; 
Up, up — and higher still — they go, 
With gentle motion, soft and slow. 

A little cloud lay sleeping, 

Across the azure sky, 
But soon it fell a-weeping, 

As cold the wind rushed by, 
And cried and cried herself away; 
It was a very rainy day. 

The little raindrops sinking, 

Ran trickling through the ground, 
And set the rootlets drinking, 



In all the country round, 
But some with laughing murmur, said, 
"We'll farther go," and on they sped. 

A little spring came dripping 
The moss and ferns among, 

A silver rill went tripping, 
And singing sweet along, 

And calling others to its side, 

Until it rolled — a river wide. 

And with the ocean blending, 

At last its waters run, 
Then is the story ending? 

Why, no! 'tis just begun, 
For in the ocean as before, 
The drop of water lay once more. 



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HOW THE CHILDREN ARE TAUGHT. 



RAM it in, cram it in; 
Children's heads are hollow, 
Slam it in, jam it in; 
Still there's more to follow — 
Hygiene and history, 
Astronomic mystery, 
Algebra, histology, 
Latin, etymology, 
Botany, geometry, 
Greek and trigonometry. 
Ram it in, cram it in; 

Children's heads are hollow. 

Rap it in, tap it in; 

What are teachers paid for? 
Bang it in, slam it in; 



What are children made for? 
Ancient archaeology, 
Aryan philology, 
Prosody, zoology, 
Physics, clinictology, 
Calculus and mathematics, 
Rhetoric and hydrostatics. 
Hoax it in, coax it in; 

Children's heads are hollow. 

Scold it in, mold it in; 

All that they can swallow. 
Fold it in, mold it in, 

Still there's more to follow. 
Faces pinched, and sad, and pale, 
Tell the same undying tale — 



106 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



Tell of moments robbed from sleep. 
Meals untasted, studies deep. 
Those who've passed the furnace through, 
With aching brow, will tell to you 
How the teacher crammed it in, 
Rammed it in, jammed it in, 



Crunched it in, puncried it in, 
Rubbed it in, clubbed it in, 
Pressed it in, caressed it- in, 
Rapped it in and slapped it in — 
When their heads were hollow. 



<5* *5* &$• 

ABOUT READY TO SHOW OFF. 

You will pardon our blunders, which, as all 

are aware, 
May even extend to the president's chair. 



KIND friends and dear parents, we wel- 
come you here 
To our nice pleasant school-room, and 

teacher so dear; 
We wish but to show how much we have 

learned, 
And how to our lessons our hearts have 
been turned. 

But hope you'll remember we all are quite 

young, 
And when we have spoken, recited, and 

sung, 



Our life is a school-time, and till that shall 

end, 
With our Father in heaven for teacher and 

friend, 
Oh, let us perform well each task that is 

given, 
Till our time of probation is ended in 

heaven. 



THE SEASONS. 

(This recitation can be made very effective when given by four girls dressed to represent the 

four seasons.) 



Spring. — 

IS this a time to be gloomy and sad, 
When our mother Nature laughs 
around, 
When even the deep blue heavens look 
glad, 
And gladness breathes from the blossom- 
ing ground? 

The clouds are at play in the azure space, 
And their shadows at play on the bright 
green vale; 

And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
And there they roll on the easy gale. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he 
smiles 



On the dewy earth that smiles on his ray, 
On the leaping waters and gay young isles; 
Aye, look, and he'll smile thy gloom 
away. 

Summer. — 

When summer comes in radiant dress, 

And sunshine floods the land, 
And blossoms, buds and butterflies 

Are seen on every hand, 
It's quite beyond disputing 

That, far more than the rest — 
The winter, spring, and autumn — 

I love sweet summer best. 

Autumn. — 

There's music in the air, 
Soft as the bee's low hum; 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



107 



There's music in the air, 

When the autumn days are come. 
Fairies sweet, your songs we hear, 

At times you're sad, then full of cheer; 
Come out! come out! we know you're 
near, 

By the music in the air. 

Winter. — 

Old winter comes forth in his robe of 
white ; 



He sends the sweet flowers far out of sight ; 
He robs the trees of their green leaves 
bright; 
And freezes the pond and river. 

We like the spring with its fine fresh air; 
We like the summer with flowers so fair; 
We like the fruits we in autumn share, 
And we like, too, old winter's greeting. 



^w ^5* t(9* 



THE CAT'S BATH, 



(A "Little 

AS pussy sat washing her face by the 
gate, 
A nice little dog came to have a good 
chat; 
And after some talk about matters of state, 
Said, with a low bow, "My dear Mrs. Cat, 
I really do hope you'll not think I am rude; 
I am curious, I know, and that you may 
say — 
Perhaps you'll be angry — but no, you're 
too good — 
Pray why do you wash in that very odd 
way? 
Now I every day rush away to the lake, 
And in the clear water I dive and I 
swim ; 
I dry my wet fur with a run and a shake, 

And am fresh as a rose and neat as a pin. 
But you any day in the sun may be seen, 



Folks' " song.) 

Just rubbing yourself with your red lit- 
tle tongue; 
I admire the grace with which it is done — 
But really, now, are you sure you get 
yourself clean?" 
The cat, who sat swelling with rage and 
surprise 
At this could no longer her fury contain, 
For she had always supposed herself rather 
precise, 
And of her sleek neatness had been 
somewhat vain; 
So she flew at poor doggy and boxed both 
his ears, 
Scratched his nose and his eyes, and spit 
in his face, 
And sent him off yelping; from which it 
appears 
Those who ask prying questions may 
meet with disgrace. 



<^w ^* ta& 

GREETING. 



KIND friends, we welcome you to-day 
With songs of merry glee ; 
Your loving smiles we strive to win, 
Each face we love to see. 



Sweet welcomes then to one and all, 
And may your smiles approve; 

And may we never miss the light 
Of faces that we love. 



108 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



THE LITTLE SPEAKER. 



(To be spoken by 

YOU'D scarce expect a boy like me 
To get up here where all can see, 
And make a speech as well as those 
Who wear the largest kind of clothes. 

I think it was in olden time, 
That some one said in funny rhyme, 
"Tall aches from little tie-corns grow, 
Large screams from little children flow." 

And if that rhymer told the truth, 
Though I am now a little youth, 



a very small boy.) 

Perhaps I'll make as great a noise, 
As some who are much larger boys. 

I will not speak of Greece and Rome, 
But tell you what I've learned at home. 
And what was taught me when at school, 
While sitting on a bench or stool; 

I've learned to talk, and read, and spell, 
And don't you think that's pretty well 
For such a little boy as I? 
But I must leave you — so good-bye. 



«(5* «<5* %&* 

LITTLE DOT 

(The touching incident that gave rise to the following lines occurred in one of our 
large cities. Crouched upon the curbstone in a blinding snowstorm there was a little match- 
girl apparently not more than six years old. Attracted by her sobs, an old gentleman 
approached her and kindly asked, "Who are you, my little girl, that you are here in this 
storm?" Raising her large brown eyes, brimming with tears, she sobbed, "Oh, I'm onlv little 
Dot!") 



CROUCHING on the icy pavement, 
Sobbing, shivering with the cold, 
Garments scant around her clinging, 

All her matches vet unsold: 
Visions of a cheerless garret, 

Cruel blows not soon forgot, 
While through choking sobs the murmur, 
"Oh, I'm only little Dot!" 

Deeper than the icy crystals, 

Though their keenness made her start, 
Is the hungry, aching longing 

In the little match-girl's heart. 



No kind voice to cheer and comfort; 

Ah! by fortune quite forgot, 
Who can wonder at the murmur, 

"Oh, I'm only little Dot!" 

Far above the clouds and snowstorms. 

Where the streets have pearly gates, 
In that home a sainted mother, 

For the little match-girl waits. 
By the throng of waiting angels, 

Little one, you're ne'er forgot; 
In the home of many mansions 

There is room for little Dot. 



j^% f^rt %&& 



THE CHILD AND THE STAR. 



SHE had been told that God made all 
the stars 
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she 

stood 
Watching the coming of the twilight on, 



As if it were a new and perfect world 
And this were its first eve. She stood alone 
By the low window, with the silken lash 
Of her soft eye upraised and her sweet 
mouth 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



109 



Half parted with the new and strange de- 
light 
Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
And had not seen before. The purple folds 
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky, 
That looked so still and delicate above, 
Filled her young heart with gladness, and 

the eve 
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
Stood looking at the west with that half- 
smile, 



As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
Presently in the edge of the last tint 
Of sunset, where the blue was melted 
Into the faint golden mellowness, a star 
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
Burst from her lips, and putting up her 

hands, 
Her simple thought broke forth expres- 
sively, 
"Father, dear father! God has made a star!" 

—N. P. Willis. 



t&* c5* «<5* 



THE TRUE STORY OF LITTLE BOY BLUE. 



LITTLE Boy Blue, as the story goes, 
One morning in summer fell fast 
asleep, 
When he should have been, as every one 
knows, 
Watching the cows and sheep. 

Now all of you will remember what 

Came of the nap on that summer morn; 

How the sheep got into the meadow-lot, 
And the cows got into the corn. 

Neglecting a duty is wrong, of course, 
But I've always felt, if we could but 
know, 
That the matter was made a great deal 
worse 
Than it should have been, and so 

I find in my sifting, that there was one 
Still more to blame than Little Boy Blue. 

I am anxious to have full justice done, 
And so, I know, are you. 

The one to blame I have found to be 
(I'm sorry to say it) little Bo-Peep; 

You will remember, perhaps, that she 
Also was minding sheep. 



Well, little Bo-Peep came tripping along- — 
(The sheep she tended were running at 
large)— 

Where little Boy Blue sat singing a song, 
And faithfully watching his charge. 

Said little Bo-Peep, "It's a burning shame 
That you should sit here from week to 
week. 

Just leave your work, and we'll play a game 
Of — well — of hide and seek." 

It was dull work, and he liked to play 
Better, I'm sure, than to eat or sleep; 

He liked the bloom of the summer day; — 
And he liked — he liked Bo-Peep. 

And so, with many a laugh and shout, 
They hid from each other — now here— 
now there; 

And whether the cows were in or out, 
Bo-Peep had never a care. 

"I will hide once more," said the maiden 
fair, 

"You shall not find me this time, I say — 
Shut your eyes up tight, and lie down there 

Under that stack of hay. 



110 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



"Now wait till I call," said Miss Bo-Peep, 
And over the meadows she slipped away, 

With never a thought for cows or sheep — 
Alas! Alas! the day. 

She let down the bars, did Miss Bo-Peep — 
Such trifles as bars she held in scorn — 

And into the meadows went the sheep, 
And the cows went into the corn. 

Then long and patiently waited he 

For the blithesome call from her rosy 
lips; 

He waited in vain — quite like, you see, 
The boy on the burning ship. 

And by and by, when they found Boy Blue 
In the merest doze, he took the blame. 



I think it was fine in him — don't you — 
Not to mention Bo-Peep's name? 

And thus it has happened that all these 
years 
He has borne the blame she ought to 
share. 
Since I know the truth of it, it appears 
To me to be only fair 

To tell the story from shore to shore, 
From sea to sea, and from sun to sun, 

Because, as I think I have said before, 
I like to see justice done. 

So, whatever you've read or seen or heard, 
Believe me, good people, I tell the true 

And only genuine — take my word — 
Story of little Boy Blue. 



^¥ %&& t&& 



OPENING ADDRESS. 



I AM a tiny tot, 
And have not much to say; 
But I must make, I'm told, 
The "Welcome Speech" to-day. 

Dear friends, we're glad you've come 
To hear us speak and sing. 



We'll do our very best 
To please in every thing. 

Our speeches we have learned; 

And if you'll hear us through, 
You'll see what tiny tots — 

If they but try — can do. 



t(5* &5* fc?* 



BABYKIN BOYKIN. 



DID the baskety woman a-sweeping the 
sky 
Discover the Babykin there? 
Did she tumble him down from his nest on 
high 
Through all of the sky-blue air? 
Did she find there was never a room to 
spare 
In the toe of her sister's shoe? 
Surely that was enough to scare 
The Babykin Boykin-Boo! 



Did the moony man give him half a crown 

And tell him he'd better be born? 
And with Jack and Jill was he tumbled 
down 

One summery, shiny morn? 
Or did Babykin Boykin come to town 

On a cow with a crumpled horn? 
Did the Babykin lie on his back asleep 

On a mattress of genuine hair? 
And did Simon the Simple and Little 
Bopeep 



JUVENILE GEMS, 



111 



Come skipping along to the fair? 
Did they blatantly blow a terrible blare 

On the horn of the Little Boy Blue, 
To wake him up with an awful scare? 

Poor Babykin Boykin-Boo! 

But if Babykin Boykin now will stay, 

We'll feed him on victuals and drink, 
And the Muffety maiden will give him 
some whey 



And a pat of her curds, I think. 
And the toes of the Banbury dame shall 
play, 
And her fingery bells go "chink!" 
And the hey-diddle cow shall jump in the 
air 
As high as she used to do. 
Oh, dear me! but she must not scare 
Our Babykin Boykin-Boo! 

— /. Edmund V. Cooke. 



t£& £& X£& 



IF. 



IF I were a man," said the restless lad, 
'Td never give up and be still and sad. 
Were my name but known in the lists of life 
I'd never say die till I'd won the strife. 
But who will challenge the steel of youth, 
Though his heart be brave, and his motto 

'truth'? 
There's work to be done in this life's short 

span, 
But, alack-a-day! I am not a man." 



"If I were a boy," says the toiler gray, 
"I'd fashion my lot in a better way. 
I'd hope and labor both day and night, 
And make ambition my beacon light. 
Were my bark but launched upon youth's 

bright stream 
I'd bend to the oar, nor drift nor dream, 
Till I reached the haven of peace and joy — 
But, alack-a-day! I am not a boy." 



t£* «£* <*?• 



THE STREET OF BY-AND-BY. 



"By the street of 'By-and-By' one arrives 

OH ! shun the spot, my youthful friends, 
I urge you to beware; 
Beguiling is the pleasant way, and softly 

breathes the air; 
Yet none have ever passed to scenes en- 
nobling, great and high, 
Who once began to linger in the street of 
By-and-by. 

How varied are the images arising to my 

sight 
Of those who wished to shun the wrong, 

who loved and prized the right, 
Yet from the silken bonds of sloth, they 

vainly strove to fly, 



at the house of 'Never/ " — Old Saying. 

Which held them gently prisoned in the 
street of By-and-by. 

A youth aspired to climb the height of 

Learning's lofty hill; 
What dimmed his bright intelligence — 

what quelled his earnest will? 
Why did the object of his quest still mock 

his wistful eye? 
Too long, alas! he tarried in the street of 

By-and-by. 

"My projects thrive," the merchant said; 
"when doubled is my store, 

How freely shall my ready gold be show- 
ered among the poor!" 



112 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



Vast grew his wealth, yet strove he not the 

mourner's tear to dry; 
He never journeyed onward from the street 

of By-and-by. 

"Forgive thy erring brother, he hath wept 

and suffered long," 
I said to one, who answered — "He hath 

done me grievous wrong; 
Yet will I seek my brother, and forgive him 

ere I die; — " 
Alas ! Death shortly found him in the street 

of By-and-by! 

The wearied worldling muses upon lost 
and wasted days, 



Resolved to turn hereafter from the error 

of his ways, 
To lift his groveling thoughts from earth, 

and fix them on the sky: 
Why does he linger fondly in the street of 

By-and-by? 

Then shun the spot, my youthful friends; 
work on, while yet you may; 

Let not old age o'ertake you as you sloth- 
fully delay, 

Lest you should gaze around you, and dis- 
cover with a sigh, 

You have reached the house of "Never" 
by the street of By-and-by. 

— Mrs. Abdy. 



«<5* «<5* c£* 



BOYS WANTED. 



BOYS of spirit, boys of will, 
Boys of muscle, brain and power, 
Fit to cope with anything, 
These are wanted every hour. 

Not the weak and whining drones, 

Who all troubles magnify; 
Not the watchword of "I can't," 

But the nobler one, "111 try." 

Do whate'er you have to do 
With a. true and earnest zeal; 



Bend your sinews to the task, 

"Put your shoulder to the wheel." 

Though your duty may be hard, 

Look not on it as an ill; 
If it be an honest task, 

Do it with an honest will. 

In the workshop, on the farm, 
At the desk, where'er you be, 

From your future efforts, boys, 
Comes a nation's destiny. 






THE NAUGHTY BOY. 



ONCE I was naughty — ran away 
To see what I could see; 
It was a horrid poky day — 
My mother punished me. 

She didn't whip me — wisht she had, 

So hard she left a mark ! 
She shut me up for being bad: 

The room was big and dark. 



It was so dark I thought I saw 
Strange creatures' awful eyes, 

And I was scared and couldn't draw 
My breath for screams and cries. 

I wisht something would gobble me, 
And so I didn't stir; 

Then I'd be gone, and mother, she- 
Guess that would punish her! 

— William S. Lord. 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



113 



BABY ON THE TRAIN. 



EVERYBODY restless, 
Grumbling at the dust, 
Growling at the cinders, 
Pictures of disgust. 

Axle hot and smoking, 

Train delayed an hour, 
How the faces lengthen, 

Sullen, wrinkled, sour. 

Sudden transformation — 

Passengers in smiles — 
Scowls and frowns have vanished — 

What is it beguiles? 



Grimy face and fingers, 
Mouth all over crumbs, 

Smeary wrist contrasting 

Pink and clean-sucked thumb. 

Round head nodding, bobbing, 

Blue eyes full of fun, 
Wind-blown tresses shining 

Golden in the sun. 

Everybody cheerful, 

No remarks profane, 
Magic change effected— 

Baby on the train. 



t&& *&* fc5* 



THE DEAD DOLL. 



YOU needn't be trying to comfort me, 
I tell you my dolly is dead! 
There's no use in saying she isn't 

With a crack like that in her head. 
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt 
Much to have my tooth out that day. 
And then when the man most pulled my 
Head off you hadn't a word to say. 

And I guess you must think I'm a baby 

When you say you can mend it with 
glue! 
As if I didn't know better than that; 

Why just suppose it were you! 
You might make her look all mended, 

But what do I care for looks ; 
Why, glue's for chairs, and tables, 

And toys and the backs of books. 

My dolly, my own little daughter! 

Oh, but it's the awfullest crack! 
It just makes me sick to think 

Of the sound, when her poor head went 
whack 
Against that horrible brass thing 

That holds up the little shelf. 



Now, nursey, what makes you remind me? 
I know that I did it myself. 

I think you must be crazy, 

You'd get her another head? 
What good would forty heads do her? 

I tell you my dolly is dead! 
And to think I hadn't quite finished 

Her elegant new spring hat, 
And I took a sweet ribbon of hers 

To tie on that horrid cat! 

When my mama gave me that ribbon, 

I was playing out in the yard. 
She said to me most expressly, 

''Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde." 
And I went and put it on Tabby, 

And Hildegarde saw me do it. 
But I said to myself, "O never mind, 

I don't believe she knew it." 

But I know she knew it now, 

And I just believe, I do, 
That her poor little heart was broken, 

And so her head broke, too; 



114 



JUVENILE GEMS. 



Oh, my baby, my little baby, 
I wish my head had been hit, 

For I've hit it over and over, 
And it wasn't cracked a bit. 

But since the darling is dead 

She'll want to be buried, of course. 

We will take my little wagon, nurse, 
And you shall be the horse. 

And I'll walk behind and cry, 

And we'll put her in this, you see, 



This dear little box, and we'll bury 
Her then under the maple tree. 

And papa will make me a tombstone 

Like the one he made for my bird, 
And he'll put what I tell him on it, 

Yes, every single word. 
I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde, 

A beautiful doll who is dead. 
She died of a broken heart 

And a dreadful crack in her head." 



*5* t5* ^?* 



THE SQUIRREL'S LESSON. 



TWO little squirrels, out in the sun, 
One gathered nuts and the other had 
none; 
"Time enough yet," his constant refrain; 
"Summer is still only just on the wane." 

Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate: 
He roused him at last, but he roused him 

too late; 
Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud, 
And gave little squirrel a spotless white 

shroud. 

Two little boys in a schoolroom were 

placed, 
One always perfect, the other disgraced; 



"Time enough yet for my learning," he 

said; 
"I will climb, by and by, from the foot to 

the head." 

Listen, my darling; their locks are turned 

gray; 
One as a Governor sitteth to-day; 
The other, a pauper, looks out at the door 
Of the almshouse, and idles his days as of 

yore. 
Two kinds of people we meet every day: 
One is at work, the other at play, 
Living uncared for, dying unknown — 
The busiest hive hath ever a drone. 



<£• ^* t2& 



WATCHING BABY AS IT SLEEPS. 



SLEEP, baby, sleep! 
Thy father watches his sheep ; 
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, 
And down comes a little dream on thee. 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

The large stars are the sheep; 
The little stars are the lambs, I guess; 



And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Our Savior loves His sheep; 
He is the Lamb of God on high, 
Who for our sakes came down to die. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 



H H Choice Humor x H 



Humor is the sauce of all literature. The humorous selections in this department are of 
sufficient variety to supply the sauce for any program or form of entertainment. 

C^* £& t0* 

CAUDLE'S SHIRT BUTTONS. 



THERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a 
little better temper than you were 
this morning. There, you needn't begin 
to whistle; people don't come to bed to 
whistle. But it's just like you, I can't 
speak, that you don't try to insult me. 
Once, I used to say you were the best crea- 
ture living; now, you get quite a fiend. 
Do let you rest? No, I won't let you rest. 
It's the only time I have to talk to you, 
and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all 
day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a 
word at night; and it isn't often I open my 
mouth, goodness knows. Because once 
in your lifetime your shirt wanted a but- 
ton, you must almost swear the roof off 
the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. 
Caudle! you don't know what you do when 
you're in a passion. You were not in a 
passion, weren't you? Well, then, I don't 
know what a passion is; and I think I 
ought to by this time. I've lived long 
enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know 
that. 

It's a pity you haven't something worse 
to complain of than a button off your shirt. 
If you'd some wives, you would, I know. 
I'm sure I'm never without a needle and 
thread in my hand; what with you and the 
children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And 
what's my thanks? Why, if once in your 
life a button's off your shirt — what do you 
say "ah" at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or 
twice, or three times, at most. I'm sure, 



Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are 
better looked after than yours. I only wish 
I'd kept the shirts you had when you were 
first married! I should like to know 
where your buttons were then? 

Yes, it is worth talking of! But that's 
how you always try to put me down. You 
fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to 
speak, you won't hear me. That's how you 
men always will have all the talk to your- 
selves: a poor woman isn't allowed to get 
a word in. A nice notion you have of a 
wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of 
but her husband's buttons. A pretty no- 
tion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha! if 
poor women only knew what they had to 
go through! What with buttons, and one 
thing and another! They'd never tie them- 
selves to the best man in the world, I'm 
sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? 
— Why, do much better without you, I'm 
certain. 

And it's my belief, after all, that the but- 
ton wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that 
you pulled it off, that you might have 
something to talk about. Oh, you're ag- 
gravating enough, when you like, for any- 
thing! All I know is, it's very odd the 
button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure 
no woman's a greater slave to her hus- 
band's buttons than I am. I only say it's 
very odd. 

However, there's one comfort; it can't 
last long. I'm worn to death with your 



115 



116 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



temper, and I shan't trouble you a great 
while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare 
say you would laugh! Fve no doubt of it! 
That's your love; that's your feeling. I 
know that I'm sinking every day; we shall 



see how your second wife will look after 
your buttons. Yes, Caudle, you'll find out 
the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll 
think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll 
never have a blessed button to your back, 



fcT* fc5* t&* 

PAT'S EXCELSIOR. 



5 HP WAS growin' dark so terrible fasht, 

I Whin through a town up the 

mountain there pashed 

A broth of a boy, to his neck in the shnow; 

As he walked, his shillaleh he swung to and 

fro, 
Saying: "It's up to the top I am bound 
for to go, 

Be jabbers!" 

He looked mortal sad, and his eye was as 

bright 
As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night; 
And nivir a word that he said could ye tell 
As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, 
"It's up till the top of the mountain I'll go, 
Onless covered up wid this bodthersome 

shnow 

Be jabbers!" 

Through the windows he saw, as he thrav- 

eled along, 
The light of the candles and fires so warm, 
But a big chunk of ice hung over his head; 
Wid a shnivel and groan, "By St. Patrick!" 

he said, 
c Tt's up to the very tip-top I will rush, 
And then if it falls, it's not meself it'll crush, 
Be jabbers!" 

"Whisht a bit," said an owld man, whose 
hair was white 

As the shnow that fell down on that mis- 
erable night; 

"Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a 
lad, 



Fur the night is so dark and the walkin' 

is bad." 
Bedad! he'd not lisht to a word that was 

said, 
But he'd go to the top, if he went on his 

head, 

Be jabbers! 

A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes 
to be kissed, 

Axed him wouldn' he stop, and how could 
he resist? 

So shnapping his fingers and winking his 
eye, 

While shmiling upon her, he made this re- 
ply— 

"Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to the 
top, 

But, as yer shwate self axed me, I may as 
well shtop, 

Be jabbers!" 

He shtopped all night and he shtopped all 
day — 

And ye mustn't be axin whin he did go 
away; 

Fur wouldn't he be a bastely gossoon 

To be lavin his darlint in the swate honey- 
moon? 

Whin the owld man has his praties enough 
and to spare, 

Shure he might as well shtay if he's com- 
fortable, there 

Be jabbers! 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



117 



CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING. 



CALLING a boy up in the morning 
can hardly be classed under the 
head of "pastimes," especially if the boy is 
fond of exercise the day before. And it is 
a little singular that the next hardest thing 
to getting a boy out of bed is getting him 
into it. There is rarely a mother that is a 
success at rousing a boy. All mothers 
know this; so do their boys. And yet the 
mother seems to go at it in the right way. 
She opens the stair door and insinuatingly 
observes, "Johnny." There is no response. 
"Johnny." Still no response. Then there 
is a short, sharp "John," followed a mo- 
ment later by a long and emphatic "J onn 
Henry." A grunt from the upper regions 
signifies that an impression has been made; 
and the mother is encouraged to add, 
"You'd better be getting down here to 



your breakfast, young man, before I come 
up there an' give you something you'll 
feel." This so startles the young man that 
he immediately goes to sleep again. And 
the operation has to be repeated several 
times. A father knows nothing about this 
trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a 
soda bottle ejects its cork, and the "John 
Henry" that cleaves the air of that stair- 
way goes into that boy like electricity, and 
pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. 
And he pops out of that bed and into his 
clothes, and down the stairs, with a 
promptness that is commendable. It is 
rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the 
paternal summons. About once a year is 
believed to be as often as is consistent with 
the rules of health. " He saves his father a 
great many steps by his thoughtfulness. 



t£* «(5* <*5* 



OLD BOB'S LIFE INSURANCE. 

(A very effective reading.) 



OLD BOB conceived the idea of hav- 
ing his life insured. 

"How much do you weigh?" asked the 
examining physician. 

"I weighs 'bout fifteen pounds more den 
my wife does." 

"Well, but how much does she weigh?" 

"I'se dun forgot; but she's a whopper, 
lemme tell you." 

"How tall are you?" 

"Who— me?" 

"Yes, you." 

"Lemme see. Does yere know Abe 
Sevier whut worked fur ole man Plum- 
mer?" 

"No." 

"Wall, I'se sorry, fur I ain't quite ez tall 
ez he is." 



The doctor, after weighing old Bob and 
measuring his height, asked: 

"Hold old are you?" 

"Who— me?" 

"Yes, of course, you. You are being 
examined." 

"Dat's a fack. Wall, lemme see. My 
birfday comes in July, an' now whut I 
wants ter git at is how many July I ken 
recolleck. Ain't dat de p'int?" 

"Yes." 

"Wall, lemme see. Bleme ef I knows. 
Suppose we make it August, 'stead of 
July?" 

"What difference would that make?" 

"Doan' know, but it's jes ez easy." 

"I'll put you down at fifty." 

"Put who down at fifty?" 



118 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



"You, of course. How old is your 
father?" 

" 'Bout er hunnered an' ten." 

"You don't tell me so?" 

"Yes, I does." 

"Is he in good health?" 

"Oh, no, sah; dat ain't whar he is. He's 
in de grabe." 

"Thought you said he is no?" 

"He is. You didn't ax me how old he 
wuz when he died." 

"Well, how old was he when he died?" 

" 'Bout forty." 

"Had he enjoyed good health?" 

"Oh, yes, sah; de healthiest man yer eber 
seed." 

"Did he have a lingering disease?" 

"Whut sorte 'zeaze?" 

"Was he sick very long?" 



"Oh, no, sah. He drapped off mighty 
sudden." 

"Heart disease?" 

"No, sah." 

"Did the doctors attend him?" 

"No, sah." 

"Well, what did they say was the mat- 
ter with him?" 

"Da didn't say much o' nothin'. One o' 
'em climbed up an' put his year agin de ole 
man an' said dot he wuz dead enough ter 
be cut down. Den de sheriff cut him down 
an' put him in er box. Doan' think dat 
he had heart 'zeaze, boss. Think dat he 
had some sorter trouble wid his naik." 

"Look here, I don't believe that you 
want your life insured." 

"I doan' b'lebe I dose, sah, since yer's 
gunter pry inter a man's family history. 
Good day, sah." 



tt* c5* t5* 



A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 



MR and Mrs. Jones had just finished 
their breakfast. Mr. Jones had 
pushed back his chair and was looking 
under the lounge for his boots. Mrs. Jones 
sat at the table, holding the infant Jones 
and mechanically working her forefinger 
in its mouth. Suddenly she paused in the 
motion, threw the astonished child on its 
back, turned as white as a sheet, pried open 
its mouth, and immediately gasped "Eph- 
raim !" 

Mr. Jones, who was yet on his knees 
with his head under the lounge, at once 
came forth, rapping his head sharply on 
the side of the lounge as he did so, and, 
getting on his feet, inquired what was the 
matter. 

"O Ephraim," said she, the tears rolling 
down her cheeks and the smiles coursing 
up. 



"Why, what is it, Aramathea?" asked 
the astonished Mr. Jones, smartly rubbing 
his head where it had come in contact with 
the lounge. 

"Baby!" she gasped. 

Mr. Jones turned pale and commenced 
to sweat. 

"Baby ! O, O, O Ephraim ! Baby has 
— baby has got — a little toothey, oh, oh!" 

"No!" screamed Mr. Jones, spreading 
his legs apart, dropping his chin and star- 
ing at the struggling heir with all his 
might. 

"I tell you it is," persisted Mrs. Jones, 
with a slight evidence of hysteria. 

"Oh, it can't be!" protested Mr. Jones, 
preparing to swear if it wasn't. 

"Come here and see for yourself," said 
Mrs. Jones. "Open it 'ittle mousy-wousy 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



121 



for its own muzzer; that's a toody- woody ; 
that's a blessed 'ittle 'ump o' sugar." 

Thus conjured, the heir opened its 
mouth sufficiently for the father to thrust 
in his finger, and that gentleman having 
convinced himself by the most unmistak- 
able evidence that a tooth was there, im- 
mediately kicked his hat across the room, 
buried his fist in the lounge, and declared 
with much feeling that he could lick the 
individual who would dare to intimate that 
he was not the happiest man on the face 
of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. Jones a 
hearty smack on the mouth and snatched 
up the heir, while that lady rushed trem- 
blingly forth after Mrs. Simmons, who 
lived next door. 

In a moment Mrs. Simmons came tear- 
ing in as if she had been shot out of a gun, 
and right behind her came Miss Simmons 



at a speed that indicated that she had been 
ejected from two guns. 

Mrs. Simmons at once snatched the heir 
from the arms of Mr. Jones and hurried it 
to the window, where she made a careful 
and critical examination of its mouth, 
while Mrs. Jones held its head and Mr. 
Jones danced up and down the room, and 
snapped his fingers to show how calm he 
was. 

It having been ascertained by Mrs. Sim- 
mons that the tooth was a sound one, and 
also that the strongest hopes for its future 
could be entertained on account of its 
coming in the new of the moon, Mrs. Jones 
got out the necessary material and Mr. 
Jones at once proceeded to write seven dif- 
ferent letters to as many persons, unfolding 
to them the event of the morning and in- 
viting them to come on as soon as possible. 



QUEER ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 



WE'LL begin with a box, and the 
plural is boxes, 
But the plural of ox should be oxen, not 

oxes; 
Then one fowl is a goose, but two are called 

geese, 
Yet the plural of moose should never be 

meese; 
You may find a lone mouse or a whole nest 

of mice, 
But the plural of house is houses, not hice ; 
If the plural of man is always called men, 
Why shouldn't the plural of pan be called 

pen? 
The cow in the plural may be cows or kine, 
But a bow if repeated is never called bine, 
And the plural of vow is vows, never vine. 

If I speak of a foot and you show me your 

feet, 
And I give you a boot, would a pair be 

called beet? 



If one is a tooth, and a whole set are teeth, 
Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called 

beeth? 
If the singular's this and the plural is these, 
Should the plural of kiss ever be nicknamed 

keese? 
Then one may be that and three would be 

those, 
Yet hat in the plural would never be hose, 
And the plural of cat is cats, not cose. 

We speak of a brother, and also of 

brethren, 
But though we say mother, we never say 

methren ; 
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his 

and him, 
But imagine the feminine she, shis and 

shim. 
So the English, I think, you all will agree, 
Is the queerest language you ever did see. 



122 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



THE NAME OF KATE. 



T 



(For a school 
HERE'S something in the name of 



Kate 

Which many will condemn; 
But listen, now, while I relate 
The traits of some of them. 

There's Deli-Kate, a modest dame, 
And worthy of your love ; 

She's nice and beautiful in frame, 
As gentle as a dove. 

Communi-Kate's intelligent, 
As we may well suppose; 

Her faithful mind is ever bent 
On telling what she knows. 

There's Intri-Kate, she's so obscure 
Tis hard to find her out; 

For she is often very sure 
To put your wits to rout. 

Prevari-Kate's a stubborn maid, 
She's sure to have her way; 

The cavilling, contrary jade 
Objects to all you say. 

There's Alter-Kate, a perfect pest, 
Much given to dispute; 



entertainment.) 

Her prattering tongue can never rest, 
You cannot her refute. 

There's Dislo-Kate, in quite a fret, 
Who fails to gain her point; 

Her case is quite unfortunate, 
And sorely out of joint. 

Equivo-Kate no one will woo; 

The thing would be absurd, 
She is so faithless and untrue, 

You cannot take her word. 

There's Vindi-Kate, she's good and true, 
And strives with all her might 

Her duty faithfully to do, 
And battle for the right. 

There's Rusti-Kate, a country lass; 

Quite fond of rural scenes; 
She likes to trample through the grass 

And loves the evergreens. 

Of all the maidens you can find,, 
There's none like Edu-Kate; 

Because she elevates the mind 
And aims to something great. 



t&* tgri t£* 



BABY'S OPINIONS. 

[The following selection can be made very humorous if the person reading it assumes 
the tones of a very little child, and in appropriate places imitates the cry of a baby.] 



I AM here. And if this is what they call 
the world, I don't think much of it. 
It's a very flannelly world, and smells of 
paregoric awfully. It's a dreadful light 
world, too, and makes me blink, I tell you. 
And I don't know what to do with my 
hands. I think I'll dig my fists in my eyes. 
No, I won't. I'll scratch at the corner of 
my blanket and chew it up, and then I'll 
holler; whatever happens, I'll holler. And 



the more paregoric they give me, the 
louder I'll yell. That old nurse puts the 
spoon in the corner of my mouth, side- 
wise like, and keeps tasting my milk her- 
self all the while. She spilt snuff in it last 
night, and when I hollered, she trotted 
me. That comes of being a two-days-old 
baby. Never mind; when I'm a man, I'll 
pay her back good. There's a pin stick- 
ing in me now, and if I say a word about 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



123 



it, I'll be trotted or fed; and I would rather 
have catnip-tea. I'll tell you who I am. I 
found out to-day. I heard folks say, 
"Hush! don't wake up Emeline's baby"; 
and I suppose that pretty, white-faced wo- 
man over on the pillow is Emeline. 

No, I was mistaken; for a chap was in 
here just now and wanted to see Bob's 
baby; and looked at me and said I was a 



funny little toad, and looked just like Bob. 
He smelt of cigars. I wonder who else I 
belong to! Yes, there's another one — 
that's "Gamma." "It was Gamma's baby, 
so it was." I declare, I do not know who 
I belong to; but I'll holler, and maybe I'll 
find out. There comes snuffy with catnip- 
tea. I'm going to sleep. I wonder why 
my hands won't go where I want them to ! 






THE CHURCH CHOIR. 



ATTENDING services not long ago in 
an elegant church edifice, where they 
worship God with taste in a highly aesthetic 
manner, the choir began that scriptural 
poem which compares Solomon with the 
lilies of the field somewhat to the former's 
disadvantage. Although not possessing a 
great admiration for Solomon, nor consider- 
ing him a suitable person to hold up as a 
shining example before the Young Men's 
Christian Association, still a pang of pity 
for him was felt when the choir, after ex- 
pressing unbounded admiration for the lilies 
of the field, which it is doubtful if they ever 
observed very closely, began to tell the con- 
gregation, through the mouth of the 
soprano, that "Solomon in all his glory was 
not arrayed." Straightway the soprano was 
re-inforced by the bass, who declared that 
Solomon was most decidedly and emphatic- 
ally not arrayed, — was not arrayed. Then 
the alto ventured it as her opinion that Solo- 
mon was not arrayed ; when the tenor, with- 
out a moment's hesitation, sung, as if it 
had been officially announced, that "he was 
not arrayed." Then, when the feelings of 
the congregation had been harrowed up suf- 
ficiently, and our sympathies all aroused for 
poor Solomon, whose numerous wives al- 
lowed him to go about in such a fashion, 
even in that climate, the choir altogether, in 



a most cool and composed manner, in- 
formed us that the idea they intended to 
convey was that Solomon in all his glory 
was not arrayed "like one of these." These 
what? So long a time had elapsed since 
they sung of the lilies that the thread was 
entirely lost, and by "these" one naturally 
concluded that the choir was designated. 
Arrayed like one of these ? We should think 
not, indeed! Solomon in a Prince Albert 
or a cutaway coat? Solomon with an eye- 
glass and a moustache, his hair cut pompa- 
dour ? No, most decidedly, Solomon in the 
very zenith of his glory was not arrayed like 
one of these. 

Despite the experience of the morning, 
the hope still remained that in the evening 
a sacred song might be sung in a manner 
that might not excite our risibilities, or leave 
the impression that we had been listening to 
a case of blackmail. But again off started 
the nimble soprano with the very laudable 
though startling announcement, "I will 
wash." Straightway the alto, not to be out- 
done, declared she would wash; and the 
tenor, finding it to be the thing, warbled 
forth he would wash ; then the deep-chested 
basso, as though calling up all his fortitude 
for the plunge, bellowed forth the stern re- 
solve that he also would wash ; next, a short 
interlude on the organ, strongly suggestive 



124 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



of the escaping of steam or splash of the 
waves, after which the choir, individually 
and collectively, asserted the firm, unshaken 
resolve that they would wash. At last they 



solved the problem by stating that they pro- 
posed to "wash their hands in innocency, 
so will the altar of the Lord be compassed." 



&£• «£* t5* 



BILL SMITH'S 

(A Georgia mountaineer's unique method 

TALK erbout gittin' married, fellers," 
said Bill Smith to some of the boys 
grouped around the stove in the post- 
office the other day, "ef ye hev as much 
trouble with yer courtin' az I did, you'll 
ricomember hit az long az ye live." 

"What wuz yer 'sperience, Bill?" chimed 
in several voices; "tell us erbout hit." 

"Hit wuz erlong in the fall uv the veer, 
erbout sorgum time, when my trouble 
kummenced," said Bill. "Down at Jeems 
Doster's the nabors thereabouts had been 
a-grindin' uv ther cane an' terwards ther 
tail end uv the week hit wuz giv out that 
thar wuz to be er candy-pullin' an' shindig 
at Jeems' home Saturday nite. The wim- 
men folks made big prep'rations fer er 
monstrous quiltin' endurin' uv the day, an' 
the whole thing wuz ter wind up with the 
frolic at nite. 

"Now thar wuz er gal in ther settlement 
by the name uv Nancy Parker. She wuz 
er darter uv ol' Coon Parker, who used ter 
trap game an' sich like up on the Conny- 
saugy River. I thought the sun riz an' 
sat in Nancy's eyes, fer she wuz the purtiest 
thing that ever wore caliker. I luved her 
wusser than I luved possum an' tater, an' 
you-uns knows possum an' taters iz too 
good ter talk erbout. We hed a fallin' out, 
howsumever, erbout er feller by the name 
uv Gus Burke, who hed kum in ter the 
naborhood ter teech skule, an' I hadn't 
been ter see her in sum time, until one nite, 



COURTSHIP. 

of disposing of a troublesome rival.) 

jes' afore the frolic, I went over to her 
house. Nancy wuz out at ther cow pen 
a-milkin', an' az I walked up, I sed: 

"'Hello, Nancy!' 

" 'Why, hello, Bill, ye are nufr ter cure 
ther sore eyes. Whar in the round world 
hev ye bin keepin' yerself?' 

" 'Oh, I've bin workin' over at the sor- 
gum-mill purty much all day, an' uv nites, 
an' I jes' slipped off ter run over here an' 
ax ye if I could take ye ter the shindig at 
Jeems Doster's ter-morrow nite.' 

" 'Well-er-er-Bill,' says she, 'Gus wuz 
over here, I mean he wuz passin' by the 
house las' nite, an' he sed az how he'd be 
glad ter cum by an' take me over thar, an' 
I tole him all rite.' 

" 'Ye tole him all rite, did ye?' 

" 'Yes, yer know, Bill, thet ther good 
book says, first cum, first sarved.' 

"'First cum! Hain't I lived hereabouts 
all my nat'ral life?' 

" 'Yaas.' 

" 'Hain't I bin hawlin' wood over ter ther 
settlement an' spendin' my hard-earned 
monev fer candy an' sich like fer ye?' 

" 'Yaas.' 

" 'Now. this is what I git fur hit. Long 
cums a flopyeered, bow-legged, whample- 
jawed feller, with his ha'r combed like a 
las' yeer's jaybird's nest, an' ye are jes' az 
sweet az pie ter him. I'd like ter know 
what bizness he's got heer, anyhow.' 

" 'Why, Bill, he's er-goin' ter teech skule 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



125 



over yon side uv ther crick, at Sam Bea- 
son's place. I thort you knowed thet. An' 
they do say he's a mity fine feller.' 

" 'Who sez so? I'll bet er load uv the 
bes' ches'nut wood on the mountain that 
you're the only one.' 

" 'Now, Bill, ye oughtn't ter git so jeal- 
ous/ 

" 'Jealous, Nancy; who's jealous? Hit 
only makes my dander rize ter see one uv 
them city upstarts cum out here an' run 
over folkes jes' 'cause he's got on store 
clothes. They don't make him no better'n 
we-uns, but a mity sight wusser, I'm think- 
in'.' 

" 'Well, Bill, we shouldn't judge peeple 
by ther 'pearance.' 

" 'No, I guess not, fer ef we did he'd er 
bin in the chain-gang two minutes after I 
set my eyes on him. Well, I mus' be 
a-gwine. I've got ter git up soon in the 
mornin' an' finish hawlin 'thet new groun' 
cane ter the mill, so good-by, Miss Nancy.' 

" 'Good-by, ef you call thet gone. I 
never seed you in sich a hurry befo', Wil- 
liam.' 

" 'Oh, I kin stay here till daybreak ef hit 
suits you.' 

"'I don't want ter keep ye,' she said; 
'hit's gettin' bedtime, anyway,' an' she 
whisked In ter the house without even so 
much az a-lookin' at me. 

"I tuk a nigh cut from thar thru the 
woods ter Jim Land's store. Hit wuz ther 
only store fur miles erround, an' uv nites 
the boys uv ther naborhood would meet 
thar, an' while they set erround on the 
cracker boxes er whittlin' ud tell jokes an' 
funny stories. I found er big crowd settin' 
erround the leetle stove in the back eend 
uv ther room havin' er jollification uv er 
time. 

" 'Whar in the world hev ye bin to-nite, 
Bill?' said Jim Land. 



" 'I kin tell ye,' said one uv ther fellers 
over next ter the wall. 'He's bin off in ther 
woods er grievin'.' 

" 'A-grievin' fur what?' said I. 

" 'A-grievin' case yer gal iz a-gwine ter 
git hitched up ter the skule teecher.' 

"Then the hull crowd riz sich er laff 
thet they set the dogs ter barkin' at ole 
man Warren's down the road; an' the 
clerk, who wuz red-headed an' ugly az sin, 
put his mouth in. He sed : 'Jes' afore sun- 
down a man kim inter the store an' axed ef 
thar wuz er parson ennywhere in the dees- 
trict. I tole him that thar wuz one over 
in the Baket Sittlement, an' showed him 
the way ter git thar, but bein' kinder curi- 
ous like ter kno' what the trouble wuz, I 
axed him ef sumbody waz ded.' 

; ' 'No,' he sed, 'hit's not quite so bad az 
thet. Ye see, we hev a new skule teecher 
in the valley, an' him an' Coon Parker's gal 
are awfully stuck on each other. Things 
hev cum ter sich a pint thet nothin' will 
satisfy 'em but ter git jined together, so 
I'm after a parson.' 

"Then the whole shootin'-match hooped 
an' hollered like er set uv crazy lunatics. I 
jined in, but I only laffed with my mouth, 
an' kinder grinned a leetle tryin' ter look 
pleasant. Bill King, who hed bin settin' on 
a pile uv flour sacks in the corner uv the 
room, got up an' slowly sauntered ter the 
door. Az he passed me he winked hiz eye 
an' I follered him. Whin we got outside 
he led the way ter an ole gum log, an' we 
both sot down. 

" 'What yer a-gwine ter do erbout this 
thing?' said Bill. 'Yer ain't a-gwine ter set 
still an' let thet sneakin' dead-beat uv er 
skule-teecher take yer gal rite out frum 
under yer nose, air ye?' 

T don't know what ter do, Bill,' said I. 
'I'm in er monstrous lot uv truble, an' 



126 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



would ruther be ded than erlive, but I see 
no way ter help hit.' 

" 'I do,' said Bill; 'an' ef ye will stick' ter 
me ye'll git the gal yet.' 

" 'I shore will do thet, pard,' said I. 

" 'Well, ye know the path thet leads over 
the hill frum Coon Parker's ter the big 
road?' 

" 'Yaas.' 

" 'Now, thet is the path what thet feller 
travels. You meet me ter-morrow nite at 
the big ches'nut tree nigh the top uv the 
hill, an' bring erlong two plow lines/ 

" 'Gee whiz, Bill, ye air not a-gwine ter 
hang him, air ye?' 

" 'Naw, but he desarves hit, tho\ I'm 
only a-gwine tu teech him a lesson thet he'll 
ricomember az long az he lives.' 

"I made a sneak fur hum' an' wint ter 
bed, but hit wuz mitey leetle I slept. Ev'ry 
time I dozed off I could see thet plague- 
taked skule-teecher a-makin' luv ter 
Nancy. I got up whin ther chickens com- 
menced crowin' fer day, an' clim up on the 
hill, whar I sot down an' watched Nancy 
a-milkin' the cow in the lot down at Park- 
er's house. I wanted ter go tu her so bad 
thet I wuz ermost crazy, but remembered 
what Bill hed sed the nite afore erbout me 
a-stayin' ter hum all day an' not goin' no- 
whar, not even to the sto'. Atter awhile I 
clim back down the hill an' wint ter my 
cabin, whar I passed one uv the most mis- 
erable days er man iver seed. The sun 
hadn't mor'n crawled down behind Laven- 
der Mount'in in the wes' thet evenin' afore 
I wuz on my way ter the ches'nut tree. 
Whin I ariv thar I found Bill, an' with him 
wuz Ben Sanders, a pertickler frien' uv 
mine. They hed made a dummy ooman 
by stuffin' a dress full uv hay an' tyin' moss 
on fer er head. This they covered with an 
old white bonnet. In the twilight she 
looked 'zactly like er human bein'. - 



" 'Hush, boys,' said Bill, T hear voices 
up ther path.' 

" 'That's them now,' said I. 'That's 
Nancy an' thet feller on ther way ter the 
shindig now. Lay down an' keep quiet till 
they git by.' 

"When they got opposite ter whar we- 
uns wuz a-hidin', Nancy said: T kno' we'll 
hav' er jim dandy time uv hit ter-nite, an' 
fun world without end.' 

"Then that audacious scoundrel up an' 
sed : 'We couldn't help but hev er glorious 
time, Miss Nancy, whin sich a purty gal az 
yu iz present.' 

"Thet made me desperate, an' ef hit 
hadn't er bin fer Bill a-holdin' uv me, I 
would er pounced on ter him quicker than 
a chicken on tu a June-bug. When they 
hed got out'n site erround the bend uv the 
path, we-uns got up frum whar we wuz 
a-hidin' an' went ter work on the dummy. 
When we got hit fixed, 'cep'n puttin' up, 
we sauntered over tu the Parker house 
an' peeped in. Everything wuz lively in- 
side. Mose Ely's fiddle wuz er talkin' rite 
out in meetin' fer all hit wuz worth, an' 
Ab Burne wuz on the flo' a-callin' the fig- 
ures in a kinder sing-song way: 

First four for'ard, han's all 'roun', 
Big pigintoed Josephus Brown, 
Balance ter yer partners, sashay all, 
Sallie en the new groun', Sallie en the 
hall. 

"And away they went it, makin' the dust 
fairly fly frum the ole board flore. Fer 
fear thet we'd be diskivered, we sneaked 
off up on the side uv the mount'in an' 
waited fer the thing ter break up. 'Long 
erbout two o'clock we seen 'em leavin' an' 
'mong the crowd thet passed over the hill 
wuz the teecher an' Nancy. As sune as 
thev wuz out uv site, we struck out over 



CHOICE HUMOR 



127 



the hill an' got the dummy. Bill clim the 
big ches'nut tree an' put one end of the 
rope over er limb and cum down. He then 
fastened one end erround Miss Becky 
(that's what Bill named the dummy). He 
then stood behind the tree a-holdin' Miss 
Becky with one han', an' the loose end uv 
the rope with the other han', while me an' 
Ben lay down behin' an ole stump. We 
didn't hev long tu wait. Presently I heerd 
sum one a-whis'lin, an' erbout that time 
the teecher cum in sight over the top uv 
the hill, on his way back from Nancy's. 
He wuz a-comin' on down the path a-whis'- 
lin' like sin, when all uv a suddint Bill let 
go Miss Becky, an' she glided out in the 
path an' commenced cuttin' a few steps an' 
didoes in the leaves. The whis'lin' stopped, 
an' whin I peeped out frum behind the 
stump the teecher wuz er standin' like er 
black post up thar en the path. 
" 'Hello, thar,' says he. 
"But Miss Becky niver opened her 
mouth. 

"He sidled erround a leetle in the path, 
an' said: 

" 'You'd better speak ef yu don't want 
tu git hurt, case I'll shoot ye, shore.' 

"For an answer Bill giv the rope er ter- 
rible yank, which nearly caused Miss 
Becky ter stan' on her hed. She quickly 
balanced herself rite end up, an' sich cuttin' 
up ye niver seed afore. She waltzed out 
in the bushes, then shuffled back in the 
middle uv ther path, whar she wuz a-cut- 
tin' the piginwing in grand style, when, 
bang went the teecher's gun, an' down 
went Miss Becky, Bill having let her fall 
like she was kilt. The ball hit a root uv the 
stump an' cum dumgasted near makin' me 
swaller a chaw uv terbacky. When I got 
the dirt out'n my eyes I looked up the path, 
an' the teecher wuz lighting er shuck. The 
last I seed uv him he war turning 'em over 



the top uv the hill. The whole thing wuz 
so blamed funny thet we-uns jes' lay down 
an' wollered in the leaves. After we-uns 
had our laff out we picked up the dummy 
frum the groun' whar hit lay an' hid hit 
in an ol' log. We then hurried down ter 
whar Bill's team wuz hid out in the bushes, 
an' all uv us got in ter his buggy an' 
started fur Squire Lane's, whar the teecher 
boarded at. When we cum in site uv the 
house me an' Ben got out an' Bill went on 
alone. He got out of his buggy at the 
gate an' went in an' knocked. Presently 
the teecher cum tu the dore. 

" T want ter see ye a minute privately,' 
said Bill. 

' 'Certainly,' said the teecher, an' they 
both walked out ter the gate. 

" 'I'm er frien' uv yourn,' commenced 
Bill, turnin' erround an' facin' the teecher, 
'an' hev risked my neck by comin' over 
here on this erran'. When I lef the store 
er crowd wuz gatherin' ter hang ye fur 
killin' uv Mike Beason's mother ter-night.' 
" 'Good land!' said the teecher, 'wuz thet 
er woman?' 

" 'Hit shore wuz, an' ef ye want ter live 
till mawnin' ye'd better be makin' tracks 
erway frum here immejiately. I've got my 
leetle black mule an' buggy out here, an' 
will take ye over ter the railroad, which 
is nigh on tu twenty mile, whar ye kin git 
aboard the cars an' git erway afore they 
kin overtake ye. I'll do this fer ye, case I 
like ye powerful well, an' don't want ter 
see ye with a rope necktie on.' 

ft 'Thank ye, Mr. William, thank ye. 
Hit's so refreshin' ter find er frien' like yu, 
an' I'll always remember yu.' 

"Then Bill struck er match, supposedly 
ter lite his pipe, but really as er signal ter 
me an' Ben ter commence hollerin' an' 
runnin' up ther road. 

" They're comin' now,' said Bill. 'Git 



128 



CHOICE HUMOR. 



yer things an' hop in ther buggy quick.' 
'The teecher hustled in the house an' 
soon appeared with a trunk, which he 
throwed in the buggy, an', quickly jumpin' 
in beside Bill, they wuz off. Ther dust an' 
leaves fairly flew down the road behind 
the leetle mule an' buggy. The sound uv 
rattlin' wheels an' the mule's feet soon died 
away in the distance, an' me an' Ben lit out 
fur home. The chickens wuz a-crowin' 
fur day when we crawled inter our beds, 
an' sleep wuz impossible, case hit wuz time 
ter git up. That afternoon Bill returned 
frum his wild ride an' told az how he had 



put the teecher on the cars, an' how scared 
he wuz. But somehow or other hit got 
norated erroun' the naborhood that an of- 
ficer hed cum from Atlanty an' took the 
teecher back with him, an' that he wuz er 
train-robber. 

"The nex' Saturday nite thar wuz er big 
time at the Parker home. Me an' Nancy 
wuz married, an' I wuz the happiest man in 
seven counties. Hit wuz several years 
afore I tole Nancy how we run the skule 
teecher away, an' all she said wuz: 

" T'm glad hit turned out the way hit 
did. The Lord will provide.' " 



<(?• «£• «5* 



FARMER BEN'S THEORY. 



I TELL ye it's nonsense," said Farmer 
Ben, "this farmin' by books and rules, 
And sendin' the boys to learn that stuff at 

the agricultural schools. 
Rotation o' crops and analysis! Talk that 

to a young baboon ! 
But ye needn't be tellin' yer science to me, 
for I believe in the moon. 

"If ye plant yer corn on the growin' moon, 

and put up the lines for crows, 
You'll find it will bear, and yer wheat will, 

too, if it's decent land where't grows. 
But potatoes now are a different thing, they 

want to grow down, that is plain : 
And don't you see you must plant for that 

when the moon is on the wane. 

"So in plantin' and hoein' and hayin' time 

it is well to have an eye 
On the hang o' the moon — ye know ye can 

tell a wet moon from a dry. 



And as to hayin', you wise ones now are 

cuttin' yer grass too soon ; 
If ye want it to spend, just wait till it's ripe, 

and mow on the full o' the moon. 

"And when all the harvest work is done, and 

the butcherin' times come round, 
Though yer hogs may be lookin' the very 

best, and as fat as hogs are found, 
You will find yer pork all shriveled and 

shrunk when it comes to the table at 

noon — 
All fried to rags — if it wasn't killed at the 

right time o' the moon. 

"With the farmers' meetin's and granges 

now, folks can talk till all is blue ; 
But don't ye be swallerin' all ye hear, for 

there ain't mor'n half on't true. 
They are trying to make me change my 

ways, but I tell 'em I'm no such coon ; 
I shall keep right on in the safe old plan and 

work my farm by the moon." 






Love and Sentiment 





The gentlest thoughts of the mind and the tenderest sentiments of the heart as expressed 
in words by the poets form the selections in this department. 

&5* «(7* 07* 

PLAYING LOVERS. 



PLAY that you are mother, dear, 
And play that papa is your beau ; 
Play that we sit in the corner here, 

Just as we used -to long ago; 
Play so, we lovers two, 

Are just as happy as can be, 
And I'll say : "I love you !" to you ! 

And you say : "I love you !" to me ! 
"I love you !" we both shall say, 

All in earnest and all in play. 

Or, play that you are the other one 
That sometimes came and went away ; 

And play that the light of years agone 
Stole into my heart again to-day ! 

Playing that you are the one I knew 
In the days that never again may be, 



I'll say : "I love you !" to you ! 

And you say : "I love you !" to me ! 
"I love you !" my heart will say 
To the ghost of the past come back to-day. 

Or, play that you sought this nestling place 

For your own sweet self, with that dual 
guise 
Of your pretty mother in your face 

And the look of that other in your eyes I 
So the dear old love shall live anew, 

As I hold my darling on my knee, 
And I'll say : "I love you !" to you ! 

And you'll say: "I love you!" to me! 
Oh, many a strange, trUe thing we say 
And do when we pretend to play ! 



-Eugene Field. 



t&* %&& ^5* 



OUR LOST TREASURE. 



I SAW my wife pull out the bottom drawer 
of the old bureau this morning, and I 
went softly out and wandered up and 
down until I knew she had shut it up and 
gone to her sewing. We have something 
laid away in that drawer which the gold of 
kings could not buy, and yet they are relics 
which grieve us until both our hearts are 
sore. I haven't dared look at them for a 
year, but I remember each article. There 
are two worn shoes, a little chip hat with 
part of the brim gone, some stockings, 
pantaloons, a coat, two or three spools, bits 
of broken crockery, a whip, and some toys. 
Wife, poor thing, goes to that drawer 



every day of her life and prays over it, and 
lets her tears fall upon the precious keep- 
sakes; but I dare not go. Sometimes we 
speak of the little one, but not often. It 
has been a long time since he left us, but 
somehow we cannot get over grieving. 
Sometimes when we sit alone of an even- 
ing, I writing and she sewing, a child in 
the street will call out as our boy used to, 
and we will start up with beating hearts 
and a wild yearning, only to find the dark- 
ness more of a burden than ever. It is so 
still now! I look up to the window where 
his blue eyes used to sparkle at my com- 
ing, but he is not there. I listen for his 



129 



130 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



pattering feet, his merry shout, and his 
ringing laugh; but there is no sound. 
There is no one to search my pockets and 
tease me for presents; I never find the 
chairs turned over, the broom down, nor 
ropes tied to the door knobs. I want some 
one to ask me for my knife; to ride on my 
shoulders; to lose my axe; to follow me 
to the gate when I go, and to meet me at 
the gate when I come home, and to call 



"good-night" from the little bed now 
empty. And my wife, she misses him still 
more, his affectionate caresses, the many 
little cares she gladly endured for his 
sake; and she would give her own life, al- 
most, to wake at midnight and see our boy 
sweetly sleeping in his little crib the peace- 
ful slumber of innocent childhood, as in 
the past when our little family circle was 
unbroken. 



C^* fc^W t&fc 

THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS. 



IF you travel o'er desert and mountain, 
Far into the country of sorrow, 
To-day, and to-night, and to-morrow, 
And maybe for months and for years, 
You shall come with a heart that is burst- 
ing. 
For trouble, and toiling, and thirsting, 
You shall certainly come to the fountain, 
At length — to the fountain of tears. 

Very peaceful the place is, and solely 
For piteous lamenting and sighing 
And those who come, living or dying, 

Alike from their hopes and their fears ; 



Full of cypress-like shadows the place is, 
And statues that cover their faces ; 

But out of the gloom springs the holy 

And beautiful fountain of tears. 

And it flows, and it flows with a motion 
So gentle, and lovely, and listless, 
And murmurs a tune so resistless, 

To him who hath suffered and hears, 

You shall surely, without a word spoken, 
Kneel down there and know you're heart- 
broken, 

And yield to the long-curbed emotion, 

That day by the fountain of tears. 



t^* <£• ^5* 

BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. 



STILL sits the schoolhouse by the road, 
An idle beggar sunning; 
Around it still the sumachs grow 

And the blackberry vines are running. 

Within, the master's desk is seen, 

Deep scarred by raps official ; 
The warping floor, the battered seats, 

The jackknives' carved initial. 

The charcoal frescoes on the wall, 

Its door's worn sill betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 

Went storming out to playing; 



Long years ago a winter sun 

Shone over it at setting; 
Lit up its western window panes, 

And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled, golden curls, 
And brown eyes full of grieving, 

Of one who still her steps delayed, 
When all the rest were leaving. 

For near her stood the little boy 
Her childish favor singled — 

His cap pulled low upon his face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, she lingered, 

As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 
The soft hand's light caressing, 

And heard the tremble of her voice, 
As if a fault confessing : 

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word ; 
I hate to go above you, 



Because" — the brown eyes lower fell — 
"Because, you see, I love you !" 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing; 

Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
Have forty years been growing. 

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
How few who pass above him 

Lament his triumph and his loss, 
Like her — because they love him. 

— John G. Whit tier. 



131 



&?* «c5» «<$* 



A LOVE SONG. 



I WAS as poor as the poorest, dear, and 
the world — it passed me by; 
But not that day when you came my way, 

with the love-light in your eye ; 
Ah! not that day when the fragrant May 
bent over the world her sky ! 

I was as lone as the loneliest, love, with 

never a dream of bliss; 
But not that day when you passed my way 

and leaned to my thankful kiss ! 



Nay! not that day, while my lips can say: 
"There was never a joy like this !" 

Dear, it is something to know this love — let 

the skies be black or blue ; 
It is something to know that you love me 

so — the tender, the sweet, the true ! 
And my heart will beat for that love, my 

sweet, till I dream in the dust with you ! 
— Frank L. Stanton. 



£* t&* <£& 



A FARMER FATHER'S PHILOSOPHY. 



DEAR SON— Your letter of the ioth 
came in the mail to-day. 

And so you want to marry, and you won- 
der what we'll say ! 

Well, Joe, your mother here and I have read 
your letter through, 

And she seems to think that I'm the one 
who'd better lecture you ; 

For, though, in most affairs, of course, 
there's nothing quite so nice 

As a mother's letter, still it takes a man to 
give advice. 

Your letter says, "She's beautiful and hand- 
some as a queen." 



I hope so, Joe, and hope you know just 

what those two words mean. 
A beautiful form is one which tells of a 

beautiful soul within ; 
A handsome face is one which wears no 

damning brain of sin ; 
Beautiful eyes are those that with the fire 

of pure thoughts glow; 
Beautiful lips are those which speak for a 

truthful heart below; 
The handsome hands are those not ashamed 

the Master's work to do — 
Hands that are patient and brave and kind, 

gentle and strong and true; 



132 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



Beautiful feet are those which go in answer 
to duty's call, 

And beautiful shoulders are those which 
bear their daily burdens all. 

Remember this maxim true, my boy, wher- 
ever you choose a wife, 



'The handsomest woman of earth is she 
who leads the handsomest life." 

I therefore trust that the woman you wed 
(if you really love each other) 

May be the handsomest one in the world — 
excepting one — your mother. 

— Frank S. Pixley. 



** <£*• ^* c^* 

LOVE'S YEAR. 



O 



N a January morning, 
Bright and frosty, Love was born; 



Softened by the gentler breezes 
Of a February morn; 

With the March winds, wild and gusty, 
Raved and blustered all the day, 

But was moved to tears and laughter 
As sweet April had her way, 

And to fairer expectation 
With the promise of May ; 

Under June skies, blue and hopeful, 
Felt anticipation near; 



Reveled in the July glory 

Of the sun's rays, hot and clear, 

And with golden sheaves of August 
Knew that harvest time is dear ; 

Yet amid a chill September 

Felt a change that checked his pride ; 

In the dimness of October 

Watched the falling leaves and sighed ; 

Through November's fogs and vapors 
Wandered out alone and cried. 

Till at last, in bleak December, 
On a winter night he died. 

— M. A. Curtois. 



£r* ^* *<?* 



ONLY A LOCK OF SOFT GOLD HAIR. 



ONLY a lock of softest gold, secured 
with tender care, 

And hid beneath the Bible lids — a sweet 
dead baby's hair. 

And lonely years have come and gone since 
she was laid away, 

And yet the childish form comes back be- 
fore my eyes to-day. 

While pressing kisses on the curl, as I 
was wont to do, 

I see her little face once more, and little 
eyes of blue. 



Only a lock of silken hair, with faded ribbon 

tied— 
The only thing save mem'ry left of her who 

early died; 
And yet it has a potent force to turn my 

yearning gaze 
From sordid pleasures of the world to 

where my darling stays, * 
And keep alive the hope that when my soul 

from clay is free, 
I'll see her where she holds the gates of 

Heaven ajar for me. 

—Will T. Hale. 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



133 



THE USUAL WAY. 



THERE was once a little man, and his 
rod and line he took, 
For he said "I'll go a-fishing in the neigh- 
boring brook/' 
And it chanced a little maiden was walk- 
ing out that day, 

And they met — in the usual way. 

Then he sat him down beside her, and an 

hour or two went by, 
But still upon the grassy brink his rod and 

line did lie; 
"I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd 

be fishing all the day !" 

And he was — in the usual way. 

So he gravely took his rod in hand, and 

threw the line about, 
But the fish perceived distinctly he was not 

looking out : 
And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but 

she said she could not stay, 

But she did — in the usual way. 



Then the stars came out above them, and 

she gave a little sigh 
As they watched the silver ripples, like the 

moments running by; 
"We must say good-bye," she whispered, 

by the alders old and gray, 

And they did — in the usual way. 

And day by day beside the stream they 

wandered to and fro, 
And day by day the fishes swam securely 

down below; 
Till this little story ended, as such little 

stories may, 

Very much — in the usual way. 

And now that they are married, do they 

always bill and coo? 
Do they never fret and quarrel like other 

couples do? 
Does he cherish her and love her? Does 

she honor and obey? 

Well — they — do — in the usual way. 






EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE, 



BEAUTIFUL was the night. Behind 
the black wall of the forest, 
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the 

moon. On the river 
Fell here and there through the branches 

a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a dark- 
ened and devious spirit. 
Nearer and round about her, the manifold 

flowers of the garden 
Poured out their souls in odors, that were 

their prayers and confessions. 
Unto the night, as it went on its way, like 

a silent Carthusian. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy 

with shadows and night dews, 



Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm 

and the magical moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with inde- 
finable longings, 
As, through the garden gate, and beneath 

the shade of the oak trees, 
Passed she along the path to the edge of 

the measureless prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, 

and fire-flies. 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot 

behold thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice 

does not reach me? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path 

to the prairie! 



134 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on 

the woodlands around me ! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning 

from labor, 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream 

of me in thy slumbers. 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and 

infinite numbers, 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of 

God in the heavens, 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased 

to marvel and worship, 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on 

the walls of that temple, 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon 

them, "Upharsin." 



And the soul of the maiden, between the 
stars and the fire-flies, 

Wandered alone; and she cried, "O Gabriel ! 
O my beloved! 

When shall these eyes behold, these arms 
be folded about thee?" 

Loud and sudden and near the note 01 a 
whippoorwill sounded 

Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through 
the neighboring thickets, 

Farther and farther away it floated and 
dropped into silence. 

"Patience !" whispered the oaks from oracu- 
lar caverns of darkness; 

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh re- 
sponded, "To-morrow !" 
1 H. W. Longfellow. 



PLATONIC. 



I HAD sworn to be a bachelor, she had 
sworn to be a maid, 
For we quite agreed in doubting whether 

matrimony paid; 
Besides, we had our higher loves, fair sci- 
ence ruled my heart, 
And she said her young affections were all 
wound up in art. 

So we laughed at those wise men, who 
say that friendship cannot live 

Twixt man and woman, unless each has 
something more to give ; 

We would be friends, and friends as true 
as e'er were man and man — 

I'd be a second David, and she Miss Jona- 
than. 

We scorned all sentimental trash— vows, 

kisses, tears and sighs; 
High friendship, such as ours, might well 

such childish arts despise. 
We liked each other, that was all, quite all 

there was to say, 



So we just shook hands upon it, in a busi- 
ness sort of way. 

We shared our secrets and our joys, to- 
gether hoped and feared, 

With common purpose sought the goal that 
young ambition reared; 

We dreamed together of the days, the 
dream-bright days to come; 

We were strictly confidential, and we call 
each other "chum." 

And many a day we wandered together o'er 
the hills, 

I seeking bugs and butterflies, and she the 
ruined mills 

And rustic bridges and the like, that picture 
makers prize 

To run in with their waterfalls, and groves, 
and summer skies. 

And many a quiet evening, in hours of 
silent ease, 

We floated down the river, or strolled be- 
neath the trees, 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



135 



And talked in long gradation, from the 

poets to the weather, 
While the western skies and my cigar 

burned slowly out together. 

Yet through it all no whispered word, no 

tell-tale glance or sigh, 
Told aught of warmer sentiment than 

friendly sympathy — 
We talked of love as coolly as we talked 

of nebulae, 
And thought no more of being one than we 

did of being three. 

"Well, good-bye, chum!" I took her hand, 
for the time had come to go, 

My going meant our parting, when to meet 
we did not know; 

I had lingered long, and said farewell with 
a very heavy heart ; 



For although we were but friends, 'tis hard 
for honest friends to part. 

"Good-bye, old fellow! don't forget your, 
friends beyond the sea, 

And some day, when you've lots of time, 
drop a line or two to me." 

The words came lightly, gaily, but a great 
sob, just behind, 

Welled upward with a story of quite a dif- 
ferent kind. 

And then she raised her eyes to mine — 

great liquid eyes of blue, 
Filled to the brim, and running o'er, like 

violet cups of dew; 
One long, long glance, and then I did, what 

I never did before — 
Perhaps the tears meant friendship, but I'm 

sure the kiss meant more. 



s3* e£* 4$* 



THE WORN WEDDING RING. 



YOUR wedding-ring wears thin, dear 
wife ; ah, summers not a few, 
Since I put it on your finger first, have 

passed o'er me and you; 
And love, what changes we have seen — 

what cares and pleasures too, — 
Since you became my own dear wife, when 
this old ring was new ! 

O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest 

of my life, 
When, thanks to God, your low, sweet 

"Yes" made you my loving wife ! 
Your heart will say the same, I know, that 

day's as dear to you, — 
That day made me yours, dear wife, when 

this old ring was new. 

How well do I remember now your young, 

sweet face that day ! 
How fair you were, how dear you were, my 

tongue could hardly say ; 



Nor how I doted on you. O, how proud I 

was of you! 
But did I love you more than now, when 

this old ring was new ? 

No — no ! no fairer were you then than at 

this hour to me ; 
And, dear as life to me this day, how could 

you dearer be? 
As sweet your face might be that day as 

now it is, 'tis true ; 
But did I know your heart as well when 

this old ring was new? 

O, partner of my gladness, wife, what care, 

what grief is there 
For me you would not bravely face, with 

me you would not share? 
O, what a weary want had every day, if 

wanting you, 
Wanting the love that God made mine, 

when this old ring was new ? 



136 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife — 

young voices that are here; 
Young faces round our fire that make their 

mother's yet more dear; 
Young loving hearts your care each day 

makes yet more like to you, 
More like the loving heart made mine, when 

this old ring was new. 



And, blessed be God! all he has given are 

with us yet; around 
Our table every precious life lent to" us still 

is found. 
Though cares we've known, with hopeful 

hearts the worst we've struggled 

through ; 
Blessed be his name for all his love since 

this old ring was new! 



e<$* &?• 



A PICTURE. 



THE farmer sat in his easy chair, 
Smoking his pipe of clay, 
While his hale old wife, with busy care, 

Was clearing the dinner away ; 
A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, 
On her grandfather's knee, was catching 
flies. 

The old man laid his hand on her head, 

With a tear on his wrinkled face; 
He thought how often her mother, dead, 

Had sat in the self-same place. 
As the tear stole down from his half-shut 

eye, 
"Don't smoke," said the child, "how it 
makes you cry!" 



The house-dog lay stretched out on the 
floor, 

Where the shade after noon used to steal ; 
The busy old wife, by the kitchen door, 

Was turning the spinning wheel; 
And the old brass clock on the mantle-tree, 
Had plodded along to almost three. 

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, 
While close to his heaving breast 
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair 

Of his sweet grandchild was pressed; 
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay ; 
Fast asleep were they both, on that summer 
day! 

— Charles Gamage Eastman. 



t£J& t&* V£& 



A DREAM. 



THERE are times when a dream de- 
licious 
Steals into a musing hour, 
Like a face with love capricious 

That peeps from a woodland bower, 
And one dear scene comes changeless, 

A wooded hill and a river, 
A deep cool bend where the lilies end 
And the elm tree shadows quiver. 

And I lie on the brink there dreaming 
That the life I live is a dream, 



That the real is but the seeming, 

And the true is the sun flecked stream. 

Beneath me the perch and the beaver sail by 
In the dim cool depths of the river. 

The struggling fly breaks the mirrored sky, 
And the elm tree shadows quiver. 

There are voices of children away on the 
hill, 
There are bees through the flag flowers 
humming. 




THE PROPOSAL. 




'MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, BED ROSE!' 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



139 



The lighterman calls to the clock, and the 
mill 

On the further side is drumming, 
And I sink to sleep in my dream of a dream 

In the grass by the brink of the river, 
Where the voices blend, and the lilies end, 

And the elm tree shadows quiver. 

Like a gift from the past is the kindly 
dream 



For the sorrow and passion and pain 
Are adrift like the leaves on the breast of 
the stream, 
And the child life comes again. 
Oh, the sweet, sweet pain of joy that died ! 

Of a pain that is joy forever! 
Oh, the life that died in the stormy tide 
That was once my sun flecked river ! 
— John Boyle O'Reilly. 



%5* c5* ^?* 



THE HUSKIN'. 



OLE "Cross-roads Brown," he give a 
bee, 
An' 'vited all the neighbors, 
Until a rig'ment fought his corn, 
With huskin'-pegs fur sabers. 

The night was clear as Em Steele's eyes, 
The moon as mild as Nancy's, 

The stars was winkin's if they knowed 
All 'bout our loves and fancies. 

The breeze was sharp an' braced a chap, 
Like Minnie Silvers' laughin'; 

The cider in the gallon jug 
Was jes tip-top fur quaffin'. 

The gals sung many a ole-time song, 

Us boys a-jinin' chorus — 
We'd no past shames to make us sad, 

Nor dreaded ones afore us. 

The shock was tumbled on the ground, 

Each in its own direction, 
An' ears was drappin' all around, 

Like pennies at collection. 

On one side o' the shock a boy, 

His sweetheart on the other, 
A kind o' timid like an' coy, 

But not so very, nuther. 

The fodder rustles dry and clean, 
The husks like silver glisten. 



The ears o' gold shine in between. 
As if they try to listen. 

An* when a red ear comes to light, 
Like some strange boy a-blushin', 

The gal she gives a scream o' fright, 
An' jukes her pardner, rushin' 

To git a kiss, the red ear's prize, 
Till, conquered most completely, 

She lifts her lips an' brightened eyes 
An' gives him one so sweetly. 

They hed a shock off from the rest, — 

Tom Fell an' Lizzie Beyer, 
An* Tom he wouldn't say a word, 

Got mute in getting nigh her. 

But Liz, she knowed jes' by his move, 
Tom loved her like tarnation, 

An' every time she said a word 
She seen him blush carnation. 

She seen him husk the red ears out, 
The bashful, foolish fellow, 

As if each red one wasn't worth 
A dozen piles o' yellow. 

Their shock was jes' 'bout finished up, 

An' Liz was busy twistin' 
A great big ear, to get it off, 

An' it was still resisting 



140 



LOVE AND SENTIMENT. 



Until she said, "Do break it, Tom," 
She didn't know she hed one, 

Till lookin' down she blushed an' cried, 
"Oh ! gracious, Tom, 't's a red one !" 



An' Tom he gave her such a kiss — . 

Stretched out 'twould make me twenty, 
An' all that night, in all their shocks, 

Red ears seemed mighty plenty. 

— Will F. McSparran. 



£><&<£ 



fHE GIRL BEHIND THE MAN BEHIND THE GUN. 



THE world to-day is ringing with our 
fame, 
Old Glory floats supreme over land and 
sea, 
Our chiefs receive great honor and acclaim, 
And everything is right as right can be. 
But let us not forget the stanch ally 

Who helped us in the fight so nobly won, 
A sweet and modest actor, but a most im- 
portant factor, 
The girl lehind the man behind the gun. 

God bless her blooming image ! 'tis our star 

and guiding light, 
In the rush and roar of battle and the 

bivouac at night, 
She's a voice to help and cheer us like a 

stirring bugle call, 
Sure, we never won a battle — it was she 

who won them all. 

The hand that rocks the cradle rocks the 

world. 
Ah, what is it that little hand can't do ? 
On bloody fields when shot and shell are 

hurled 
It bears the flag and pulls the lanyard, 

too. 



'Tis pointed forward in the press of war, 
'Tis clasped in mercy when the fight is 
done; 
And by her truth and beauty she incites us 
to our duty — 
The girl behind the man behind the gun. 

And whether we are camped on Cuba's 
shore, 
Or in King Philip's Islands, far away, 
In steadfast splendor o'er the clouds of 
war 
The love of woman shines upon our way ; 
With every crowded trooper sent abroad 
A thousand loving hearts are sailing on, 
So stands around the world, where our ban- 
ner is unfurled, 
The girl behind the man behind the gun. 

God bless her blooming image ! 'tis our star 

and guiding light, 
In the rush and roar of battle and the 

bivouac at night, 
She's a voice to help and cheer us like a 

stirring bugle call, 
Sure, we never won a battle — it was she 

who won them all. 

— Will Stokes. 



xs 



Told in Dialect 



m 



In this department are included the most humorous and comic selections in German, Irish, 

Yankee, Western and Southern dialects, all by famous authors, including John Hay, 

Secretary of State, Charles Follen Adams, M. Quad and Irwin Russell. 

«^* <2r> 47* 

HOW DID DIS YERE WORLD GIT YERE? 

An address by the Hon. Scalpilusas Johnson the "Black Magnet of Tennessee." 



MY frens, is dar' one among you who 
ever stopped to think dat dis world 
was not alius yere? Probably not. You 
hev gone fussin' around without thought or 
care whether dis globe on which we hev 
the honor to reside is one thousand or one 
millyun y'ars old. Did you eber sot down 
on de back steps in de twilight an' ax yer- 
self how dis world cum to be yere any- 
how? How was it made? How long did 
it take ? How did de makin' begin ? No ; 
none of ye hev. Ye hev put in yer time 
shootin' craps, playin' policy, spottin' off 
hen houses an' sleepin' in de shade, an' ye 
ar' a pack of pore, ignorant critters in con- 
sekence. 

"My frens," continued the speaker, "what 
occupied dis yere space befo' de world took 
its place ? Some of you no doubt believe it 
was a vast body of water — a great ocean 
full of whales. Others hev argued dat it 
was one vast plain, whar' persimmons an' 
watermelons grew de hull y'ar round. 
[Yum! yum!] You is all mistaken. It 
was simply goneness — emptiness — nuffin- 
ness — space. It was de same emptiness 
dat you see when you look skyward. De 
space at present occupied by dis world could 
hev once bin bought fur an old dun-cull'd 
mewl wid his teef gone, an' it would hev 
bin a dear bargin at dat. ' De reason it 



wasn't sold was bekase dar' was nobody yere 
to buy it — nobody to git up a boom. 

"How did dis world git a start ? Some of 
you may hev wondered about it, but it is 
mo' likely dat you has dun let it go, an' paid 
no 'tenshun to de matter. In de fust place 
de Lawd had to find de space. You can't 
build a cabin till you git de space to build 
on. Dar had to be a space to put de world 
in. De atmosphere had to be shoved aside 
to make a big hole, an' when de hole was 
dar de world commenced to make. You 
hev red dat eberything was created in six 
days. Mighty long days dose were. I has 
figgered on it a good many times, an' I'ze 
tellin' ye dat it took thousands of y'ars. 
Dar was a powerful lot o' periods to go 
frew wid befo' things come out ship-shape. 

"Dar was de chaotic period — a time when 
eberything was wrong side up an' inside 
out. Flames was a-rollin', de oceans a- 
heavin', mountains risin' up to sink away 
agin, an' dar was no tellin' who would cum 
out on top. Dat period lasted fur 10,000 
y'ars, an' it was a good thing dat we wasn't 
around. 

"De nex' period was de passle period — 
a time when eberything was passled out 
accordin' to common sense. De oceans war 
giben boundaries — de ribers war giben beds 
— de mountains war distributed around to 



141 



142 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



give moas' eberybody some side hill, an' dar 
was a gineral pickin' ober and sortin' out 
to make a good appearance. Dis period 
lasted about 10,000 y'ars, an' you didn't lose 
nuffin' by bein' out of town. De nex' pe- 
riod is known as de coolin' ofT period. Eb- 
erything had bin red hot fur 20,000 y'ars, 
an' it took a heap o' time before dey got 
cool 'nufT to handle. When dey did we had 
a surface composed of water an' sich. Fur 
thousands of y'ars dar wasn't nufT sile fur 
a grasshopper to scratch in, nor 'nufT grass 
fur to make a green streak on a pair o' 
white pants. 

"My frens, dar war odder periods — de 
ice period, de drift period, de dirt period, 
de grass period — and finally all was ready 
an' waitin' fur de man period. De world 
had bin created an' was all right. Birds 
were flyin' around, chickens roosted so low 
dat you could reach up an' pick 'em, an' de 
hoss an' ox an' cow stood waitin' to be 
milked. It was a beautiful scene. I kin 
shut my eyes an' see it. If you could hev 
bin right dar at dat time you would hev 
busted yourselves on 'possum an' yams, de 
fattest kind o' pullets — de biggest sart o' 
'possums — de heaviest yams an' de moas' 



gigantic watermelons — all right dar beggin' 
of you to eat 'em up widout costin' a cent. 

"Den man an' woman war created, an' 
things has gone along bang-up eber since. 
I has bin pained an' grieved to h'ar dat 
sartin' cull'd men hev contended dat de 
black man was bo'n fust. In fact dat Adam 
was jist about my size an' complexun. 
Gem'ln, doan' you believe it. It hain't so. 
If it was so we'd be walkin' into barber 
shops kept by white men an' layin' ourselves 
back fur a shave. We wouldn't hev dis 
fuzzy h'ar. We wouldn't be so liberal in de 
size of de fut an' de length of de heel. We 
could pass a smoked ham hangin' in front of 
a grocery in de night widout stoppin' to 
look if de grocer war in. 

"My frens, wid dese few homogenous dis- 
qualifications I bid you good-night, as de 
hour has grown late, an' I believe I has sat- 
isfied you on de soundness of my theory. 
Think of these things fur yourselves. 
Animadvert on de diaphragm doorin' your 
hours of leisure. rDoan' accept things as 
you find them, but inquar' of yourselves 
why de thusness of de thisness emulates de 
consanguinity of de concordance." 



& J* ,* 



SHAKE UND DER VIDDER. 



OXCOOSE me if I shed some tears, 
Und wipe my nose avay ; 
Und if a lump vos in my troat, 
It comes up dere to shtay. 

My sadness I shall now unfoldt, 

Und if dot tale of woe 
Don'd do some Dutchmans any good, 

Den I don't pelief I know. 

You see, I fall myself in love, 

Und efTery night I goes 
Across to Brooklyn by clot pridge, 

All dressed in Sunday clothes. 



A vidder vomans vos der brize, 
Her husband he vos dead ; 

Und all alone in this colt vorldt, 
Dot vidder vas, she said. 

Her heart for love vos on der pine, 

Und dot I like to see ; 
Und all der time I hoped dot heart 

Vos on der pine for me. 

I keeps a butcher shop, you know, 
Und in a stocking stout, 

I put avay my gold and bills, 
Und no one gets him oudt, 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



li; 



If in der night some bank cashier 
Goes skipping off mit cash, 

I shleep so sound as nefer vos, 
Vhile rich folks go to shmash. 

I court dot vidder sixteen months, 

Dot vidder she courts me, 
Und vhen I says : " Vill you be mine ?" 

She says : "You bet I'll be !" 

Ve vos engaged — oh! blessed fact! 

I squeeze dot dimpled hand ; 
Her head upon my shoulder lays, 

Shust like a bag of sand. 

"Before der vedding day vos set," 

She vispers in mine ear, 
"I like to say I haf to use 

Some cash, my Jacob, dear. 



"I owns dis house and two big farms, 
Und ponds und railroad shtock ; 

MISLED BY THE MOON. 

WHEN de sun puts on his golden 
gown 
Wif de shiny purple seams, 
An' lays him down in Twilight Town 
Foh er res' in de House ob Dreams, 
I takes de fiddle an' I takes de bow 
An' I sets whah de shadows creep, 
An' I plays 'im fas' an' I plays 'im slow 
Till I plays me mos' ter sleep. 



Und up in Yonkers I bossess 
A grand big peesness block. 

"Der times vos dull, my butcher boy, 

Der market vos no good, 
Und if- 1 sell" — I squeezed her handt 

To show I understood. 

Next day — oxcoose my briny tears — 
Dot shtocking took a shrink ; 

I counted out twelf hundred in 
Der cleanest kind o' chink. 

Und later, by two days or more, 

Dot vidder shlopes avay ; 
Und leaves a note behindt for me 

In vhich dot vidder say : 

Dear Shake: 

Der rose vos red:, 

Der violet blue — 
You see I've left, 

Und you're left, too !" 






Miss Moon comes ober de sky right soon, 

Wif a smile dat am fine ter see, 
An' I stops de tune an' I says, "Miss Moon, 

Will yoh promanade wif me?" 
It's fie, Miss Moon — it's fie, foh shame, 

I didn't think you'd stoop 
Fer ter lead me on till I's clean done gone 

Run inter a chicken-coop ! 

— Philander Johnson. 



KATHRINA'S VISIT TO NEW YORK. 



VELL, von morning I says to Hans 
(Hans vos mein husband) : "Hans, 
I tinks I goes down to New York, und see 
some sights in dot village." 

Und Hans he say: "Veil, Katrina, you 
vork hard pooty mooch, I tinks it vould 
petter be dot you goes und rest yourself 



some." So I gets meinself ready righd 
avay quick, und in two days I vos de shteam 
cars on vistling avay for New York. Ve 
vent so fast I tinks mein head vould shplit 
somedimes. De poles for dot delegraph 
vires goes by like dey vos mad und run- 
ning a races demselves mit to see vich could 



144 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



go de fastest mit de oder. De engine vistled 
like somedimes it vos hurt bad, und 
screeched mid de pain, und de horses by 
dem fields vould run as dey vas scared. 

It vas pooty mooch as ten hours ven ve 
rushed into some houses so big enough as 
all our village, und de cars begin to shtop 
vith so many leetle jerks I dinks me I shall 
lose all de dinner vot I eat vile I vas coming 
all de vay apoudt. 

Veil, ven dem cars got shtopped, de peo- 
ples all got oudt und I picked mein traps 
oup und got oudt too. I had shust shtepped 
de blatf orm on, ven so mooch as ein hundert 
men, mit vips in der hands, und der ringers 
all in de air oup, asked me all at vounce, 
"Vere I go ?" Und every one of dem fellers 
vanted me to go mit him to his hotel. But 
I tells 'em I guess not ; I vas going mit my 
brudder-mit-law, vot keeps ein pakeshop 
on de Powery, vere it didn't cost me notings. 
So I got me in dot shtreet-cars, und pays de 
man mit brass buttons on his coat to let me 
oudt mit de shtreet vere dot Yawcup 
Schneider leeves. Oh, my ! vot lots of 
houses ! De shtreets vos all ofer filled mit 
dem. Und so many beobles I tinks me dere 
must be a fire, or a barade, or some oxcite- 
ment vot gets de whole city in von blaces. 
It dakes me so mooch time to look at every- 
tings I forgot me ven to got oudt und rides 
apast de blaces I vants to shtop to, und has 
to valk again pack mid dree or four 
shquares. But I vind me dot brudder-mit- 
law who vos make me so velcome as nefer 
vos. 

Veil, dot vas Saturday mit de afternoon. 
I was tired mit dot day's travel, und I goes 
me pooty quick to bed, und ven I vakes in 
de morning de sun vas high oup in de shky. 
But I gets me oup und puts on mein new 
silk vrock und tinks me I shall go to some 
fine churches und hear ein grosse breacher. 
Der pells vas ringing so schveet I dinks I 



nefer pefore hear such music. Ven I got de 
shtreet on de beobles vos all going quiet und 
nice to dere blaces mit worship, und I makes 
oup my mind to go in von of dem churches 
so soon as von comes along. Pooty soon I 
comes to de von mit ein shteeple high oup 
in de shky, und I goes in mit de beobles und 
sits me down on ein seat all covered mit a 
leetle mattress. De big organ vas blaying 
so soft it seemed likes as if some angels 
must be dere to make dot music. 

Pooty soon de breacher man shtood in de 
bulbit oup und read de hymn oudt, und all 
de beobles sing until de churches vos filled 
mit de shweetness. Den de breacher man 
pray, und read de Pible, und den he say dot 
de bulbit would be occupied by the Rev. 
Villiam R. Shtover, mit Leavenworth, 
Kansas. 

Den dot man gommence to breach, und he 
read mit his dext, "Und Simon's vife's 
mudder lay sick mit a fever." He talks for 
so mooch as ein half hour already ven de 
beobles sings again und goes home. I tells 
mein brudder-mit-law it vos so nice I tinks 
me I goes again mit some oder churches. 
So vot you tinks? I goes mit anoder 
churches dot afternoon, und dot same Vil- 
liam R. Shtover vos dere und breach dot 
same sermon ofer again mit dot same dext, 
"Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a 
fever." I tinks to myself — dot vos too bad, 
und I goes home und dells Yawcup, und he 
says: "Nefer mind, Katrina, to-night ve 
goes somevhere else to churches." So ven 
de night vas come und de lamps vos all 
lighted mit de shtreets, me und mein brud- 
der-mit-law, ve goes over to dot Brooklyn 
town to hear dot Heinrich Vard Peecher. 

My, but dot vas ein grosse church, und 
so many beobles vas dere, ve vas crowded 
mit de vail back. Ven de singing vas all 
done, a man vot vos sitting mit a leetle chair 
got oup und say dot de Rev. Heinrich Vard 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



145 



Peecher vas to der Vhite Mountains gone 
mit dot hay fever, but dot der bulbit vould 
be occupied on this occasion by der Rev. 
Villiam R. Shtover, mit Leavenworth, 
Kansas. Und dot Villiam R. Shtover he 
gots mit dot bulbit oup und breaches dot 
same sermon mit dot same dext, "Und Si- 
mon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." 

Dot vas too bad again, und I gets mad. 
I vas so mad I vish dot he got dot fever 
himself. 

Veil, ven dot man vas troo, Yawcup says 
to me, "Come, Katrina, ve'll go down to 
dot ferry und take der boat vot goes to New 



York!" Ven ve vos on dot boat der fog 
vas so tick dot you couldn't see your hands 
pehind your pack. De vistles vas plowing, 
und dem pells vas ringing, und von man 
shtepped up mit Yawcup und say "Vot vor 
dem pells pe ringing so mooch?" 

Und ven I looked around dere shtood 
dot Villiam R. Shtover, mit Leavenworth, 
Kansas — und I said pooty quick : "Vot vor 
dem pells vas ringing? Vy for Simon's 
vife's mudder, vot must be died, for I hear 
dree times to-day already dot she vas sick 
mit ein fever." 



COURTSHIP AT THE HUSKIN' BEE. 



THE Huskin' bee wuz over, ez the sun 
wuz goin' down 
In a yeller blaze o' glory jist behind the 

maples brown, 
The gals wuz gittin' ready 'n the boys wuz 

standin' by, 
To hitch on whar they wanted to, or know 
the reason why. 

Of all the gals what set aroun' the pile of 

corn thet day, 
A'twistin' off the rustlin' husks, ez ef 'twas 

only play, 
The pertyest one of all the lot — -'n they wuz 

putty, too — 
Wuz Zury Hess, whose lafdn' eyes cud look 

ye through an' through. 

Now it happened little Zury found a red ear 

in the pile, 
Afore we finished huskin', 'n ye orter seen 

her smile; 
For, o' coorse, she held the privilege, if she 

would only dare, 
To choose the feller she liked best 'n kiss 

him then 'n there. 



My! how we puckered up our lips 'n tried 

to look our best, 
Each feller wished he'd be the one picked 

out from all the rest ; 
'Til Zury, arter hangin' back a leetle spell 

or so, 
Got up 'n walked right over to the last one 

in the row. 

She jist reached down 'n touched her lips 

onto the ol' white head 
O' Peter Sims, who's eighty year ef he's a 

day, 'tis said ; 
She looked so sweet ol' Peter tho't an angel 

cum to say 
As how his harp wuz ready in the land o' 

tarnal day. 

Mad? Well I should say I was, 'n I tol' 

her goin' hum 
As how the way she slighted me had made 

me sorter glum, 
'N that I didn't think she'd shake me right 

afore the crowd— 
I wuzn't gointer stand it — 'n I said so pooty 

loud. 



146 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



Then Zury drapped her laffin' eyes 'n whis- 
pered to me low, 

"I didn't kiss ye 'fore the crowd — 'cause — 
'cause — I love ye so, 

'N I thought ye wudn't mind it if I kissed 
ol* Pete instead, 

Because the grave is closin' jist above his 
pore ol' head. 



Well — wimmin's ways is queer, sometimes, 

and we don't alius know 
Jist what's a-throbbin' in their hearts when 

they act thus 'n so — 
All I know is, that when I bid good night 

to Zury Hess, 
I loved her more'n ever, 'n I'll never love 

her less. 



&5* v* ^* 



THE LITTLE RID HIN. 



WELL, thin, there was once't upon a 
time, away off in the ould country, 
livin' all er lone in the woods, in a 
wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid 
hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did 
no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there 
lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, 
a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same 
ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, 
and he prowled round shly iv a daytime, 
thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the 
little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile 
her up for his shupper. 

But the wise little rid hin niver went intil 
her bit iv a house, but she locked the door 
afther her, and pit the kay in her pocket. 
So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, 
an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, 
till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra 
a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he get 
at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil 
his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag 
one mornin', over his shoulder, an' he says 
till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the 
pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll 
bring the little rid hin to-night for our shup- 
per." 

An' away he wint, over the hills, an' came 
crapin' shly and soft through the woods to 
where the little rid hin lived in her shnug 
bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very 
minute that he got along, out comes the 



little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up 
shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra, 
now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould 
fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the 
house, an' hides behind the door. An' in 
comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, 
with her apron full iv shticks, an' shuts to 
the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her 
pocket. An' thin she turns round — an' 
there shtands the baste iv a fox in the cor- 
ner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist 
dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a 
great fright and flutter to the big bame 
across inside o' the roof, where the fox 
couldn't git at her ! 

"Ah, ha!" says the ould fox, "I'll soon 
bring yees down out o' that !" An' he be- 
gan to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, 
fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, 
afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid 
hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist 
tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox 
whipped her up and popped her intil his 
bag, and stharted off home in a minute. 
An* he wint up the wood, an' down the 
wood half the day long wid his little rid hin 
shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a 
know she knowed where she was at all, at 
all. She thought she was all biled an' ate 
up, an' finished shure ! But, by an' by, she 
remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her 
pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



147 



and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, 
an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone 
an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home 
an' locked the door. 

An' the fox he tugged away, up over the 
hill, with the big shtone at his back thumpin' 
his shoulders, thinkin' to himself how 
heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine 
shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in 
sight iv his din in the rocks, and shpied his 
ould mother a watchin' for him at the door, 
he says, "Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" 



An' the ould mother says, "Sure an' it is; 
an' have yet the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist 
here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot 
till I pit her in," says he. 

An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid 
o' the pot, an' the rashkill untied the bag, 
and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' 
shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An the 
bilin' wahter shplashed up all over* the rogue 
iv a fox, an' his mother, an' schalded them 
both to death. An' the little rid hin lived 
safe yi her house foriver afther. 






THE RULER 

JIM COOGAN was a wurrukin' man 
Who wurruked the livelong day, 
An' ivery week he used to sneak 

Two dollars from his pay, 
An' put it in a stockin', 

Where 'twas safely salted down — 
Now look at him ; this silfsame Jim 
Is ruler iv the town. 

He wasn't like the most iv them, 

That think they're doin' proud 
To draw their pay aich Sathurday 

And spind it on the crowd. 
He saved a voter's price aich week, 

An' now he's got raynown, 
For look at him, this silfsame Jim 

Is ruler iv the town. 



IV THE TOWN. 

He's prisident — jist think iv that ! 

An' has a sicretary 
Who has a clurruk to do the wurruk 

Phwile he drinks Tom-an'-Jerry. 
An' phwin he's prisidintin' 

He wears a goolden crown 
A-top iv him — that same does Jim 

Phwin rulin' iv the town. 

Now all I've got to say is this : 

Lave off yer blowin' in ; 
Save up yer stuff till ye've enough 

To wurruk the wurrukin' min. 
Then reach for office ivery year ; 

An* phwin ye pull wan down, 
The same as him, ye'll be, like Jim, 

The ruler iv the town. 



%£j4 (<5% 5,5* 

"DE COTE-HOUSE IN DE SKY." 



NOW Ps got a notion in my head dat 
when you come to die, 
An' stand de 'zamination in de Cote-house in 

de sky, 
You'll be 'stonished at de questions dat de 

angel's gwine to ax 
When he gits you on de witness-stan' an* 
pins you to de fac's; 



Cause he'll ax you mighty closely 'bout 

your doins in de night, 
An' de water-million question's gwine to 

bodder you a sight ! 
Den your eyes'll open wider dan dey eber 

done befo', 
When he chats you 'bout a chicken-scrape 

dat happened long ago ! 



148 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



De angels on de picket-line erlong de Milky 

Way 
Keeps a-watchin' what yer dribin' at an' 

hearin' what you say : 
No matter what you want to do, no matter 

whar you's gwine, 
Dey's mighty apt to find it out an' pass it 

long de line ; 
An' of en at de meetin' when you make a 

fuss an laff — ■ 
Why, dey send de news a kitin' by de golden 

telegraph ; 
Den, de angel in de orfis, what's a-settin' by 

de gate, 



Jes' reads de message wid a look an' claps it 
on de slate ! 

Den you better do your juty well an' keep 
your conscience clear, 

An' keep a-lookin' straight ahead an' watch- 
in' whar you steer; 

'Cause arter while de time'll come to jour- 
ney fum de Ian', 

An' dey'll take you way up in de a'r an' put 
you on de stan' ; 

Den you'll hab to listen to de clerk an' ans- 
wer mighty straight. 

Ef you ebber 'spec' to trabble froo de ala- 
baster gate! 



<£ <£ J8 

HAN'S REGISTERED LETTER. 



HANS BLUKMAN got mad the other 
day. It was in London. There were 
a number of new letter-carriers wanted in 
the post-office department, and five or six 
score applicants were on hand to be ex- 
amined by the shrewd medical gentlemen 
who were appointed to conduct this rigid 
scrutiny. Among these, was fat Hans 
Blukman, a well-to-do tradesman. He 
stood about the middle of the long line, be- 
fore the closed doors of a room at the post- 
office building. He waited his turn with 
perspiring impatience. Every now and 
then, the door would open, a head would 
be thrust through the crack of the door and 
cry "Next!" Then somebody — not Hans 
Blukman — would enter. 

At last it came Han's turn. He entered 
and found himself alone with a man of pro- 
fessional aspect. Hans held out a slip of 
paper. The official said: 

"Take off your coat." 

"Take off mine goat? Vot you dink I 
come for? To get shafed? I vant " 

"All right. Take off your coat, or I can't 
examine you." 



"Den I vos got to be examined? So? 
Dot's all right, I s'pose," and off came the 
coat. 

"Off waistcoat, too!" 

"Look here, my friend, you dink I was a 
tief? You vants to zearch me? Well, dot's 
all right. I peen an honest man, py dunder, 
and you don't vind no schtolen broperty 
my clothes insite! I vas never zearch pe- 
fore already " 

"I don't want to search you: I want to 
examine you. Don't you understand?" 

"No, I ton'd understand. But dot's all 
right; dere's mine clothes off, und if I cold 
catch, dot vill your fault peen entirely." 

The professional man placed his hand on 
the visitor's shoulder blade, applied an ear 
to his chest, tapped him on the breast-bone 
and punched him in the small of the back, 
inquiring if it hurt. 

"Hurt? No, dot ton'd hurt; but maype, 
if dose foolishness ton'd stop, somepody 
ellus gits bretty soon hurt." 

"Does that hurt?" was the next ques- 
tion, accompanied by a gentle thrust 
among the ribs. 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



U9- 



"No, dot ton'd hurt; but, by dunder, 



lt- 



"Be quiet! I'm in a hurry — I've a dozen 
more to attend to. Now, can you read this 
card when I hold it out so?" 

"No." 

"Can you read it now?" bringing it a few 
inches nearer. 

"No; but you choost pring me out my 
spegtagles by my goat pocket and I read 
him." 

"Oh! that won't do. Your sight is defect- 
ive, I am sorry to say, and you are re- 
jected. Put on your clothes — quick, 
please." 

"Dot's all right. So I vos rechected, eh? 
Well, dot vas nezzary, I subbose; but it's 
very vunny, choost the same. And now 
I've peen rechected und eggsamined, may- 



pe, you don'd some objections got to git 
me dot rechistered letter?" 

"What registered letter?" 

"Dot rechistered letter vot vas spoken 
about on dis piece baber." 

"The dickens! Who sent you to me 
with that? I thought you had come to be 
examined. Didn't you apply to be a letter- 
carrier?" 

"A letter-garrier? No I don't vant to be 
a letter-garrier. I half bizziness got py 
mineself, but I vants my rechistered letter." 

"Here," said the doctor to a messenger 
in the lobby, "show this man the regis- 
tered-letter clerk," and the bewildered 
foreigner was conducted to the proper win- 
dow where after passing through such a 
trying ordeal he finally received his letter 
from "Sharmeny" all right. 



«*5* &5* <<$* 



LITTLE BREECHES. 

(A Pike County, Missouri, view of Special Providence.) 



I DON'T go much on religion. 
I never ain't had no show ; 
But I've got a middlin' tight grip, Sir, 

On the handful o' things I know. 
I don't pan out on the prophets 

And free-will, and that sort of thing — 
But I b'lieve in God and the angels, 
Ever since one night last spring. 

I come into town with some turnips, 

And my little Gabe came along— 
No four-year-old in the country 

Could beat him for pretty and strong. 
Pert and chipper and sassy, 

Afways ready to swear and fight — 
And I'd larnt him to chaw tobacker, 

Jest to keep his milk teeth white. 

The snow came down like a blanket 
As I passed by Taggart's store ; 



I went in for a jug of molasses 
And left the team at the door. 

They scared at something and started — 
I heard one little squall, 

And hell-to-split over the prairie 
Went team, Little Breeches and all. 

Hell-to-split over the prairie ! 

I was almost froze with skeer; 
But we roused up some torches, 

And sarched for 'em far and near. 
At last we struck horses and wagon, 

Snowed under a soft white mound, 
Upsot, dead beat — but of little Gabe 

No hide nor hair was found. 

And here all hope soured on me 

Of my fellow-critters' aid — 
I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, 

Crotch-deep in the snow and prayed. 



150 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



* 5JS Jfc * * * * 

By this the torches was played out, 

And me and Isrul Parr 
Went off for some wood to a sheepfold 

That he said was somewhar thar. 

We found it at last, and a little shed 
Where they shut up the lambs at night. 

We looked in and seen them huddled thar, 
So warm and sleepy and white. 

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, 
As peart as ever you see, 



" I want a chaw of tobacker, 

And that's wat's the matter of me." 

How did he git thar ? Angels ! 

He could never have walked in that 
storm ; 
They jest scooped down and toted him 

To whar it was safe and warm. 
And I think that savin' a little child 

And bringin' him to his own, 
Is a derned sight better business 

Than loafin' around the Throne. 






MAMMY'S HUSHABY. 



HUSHABY, hushaby, HI' baby boy, 
Shet yo' eyes tight an' drap off ter 
* sleep ; 
Mistah Coon was a-pacin' at a mighty jog 
When he seed a 'possum curled up on a 
lawg: 
"Howdy, Brer 'Possum, I'se glad you a'n't 
a dawg" — 

Hushaby, HI' baby boy. 
All de HI' mawkin' birds a sleepin' in dar 
nes', 
When night comes den sleepin' is de bes', 
Tek up m' honey boy an' hug him ter m' 
bres', 

Hushaby, HI' baby boy. 



Hushaby, hushaby, HI' baby boy, 

Watch dawg bark an' booger man run; 
Down in the medder HI' bunnies race, 
Frolickin' an' jumpin' all about de 
place — 
Jess yo' quit dat laffin' right in yo' mam- 
my's face — 

Hushaby, HI' baby boy. 

Oi' brindle cow's a-callin', "goo' night, goo' 

night," she said, 

Time all HI' chilluns fer ter be in bed ; 

Tight shet go dem bright eyes, down drap 

dat curly head — 

Hushaby, HI' baby boy. 

— Richard Linthicum. 



t&rl t&& *2& 



DER DRUMMER. 



WHO puts oup at der pest hotel, 
Und dakes his oysders on der 
shell, 
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell? 
Der drummer. 

Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, 
Drows down his pundles of der vloor, 
Und nefer schtops to shut der door? 
Der drummer. 



Who dakes me py der handt und say, 
"Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?" 
Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay? 
Der drummer. 

Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 
Und dells me, "Look, und see how nice?" 
Und says I gets "der bottom price?" 
Der drummer. 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



151 



Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought, 
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort, 
But let's them go as he vas "short" ? 
Der drummer. 

Who says der tings vas eggstra vine — 
"Vrom Sharmany, upon der Rhine !" 
Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine? 
Der drummer. 

Who varrants all der goods to suit 
Der gustomers ubon his route, 



Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot ? 
Der drummer. 

Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, 
Drinks oup mine bier, und eats mine kraut, 
Und kiss Katrina in der mout? 
Der drummer. 

Who, ven he gomes again dis way, 
Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 
Und mit a plack eye goes avay ? 
Der drummer. 



«5* 4$* «5* 



CONSOLATION. 



J '"P AIN' no matter what yoh does, 
1 Ner to whah yoh strays, 

T'ings'll make yer wish dey wuz 

Dif'unt, lots o' ways. 
When I's done de bes' I can, 

Weary ez kin be, 
Wisht I was some yuther man, 

'Stid o' being me. 



But, when mawnin' fin's me strong, 

Ready foh de day, 
Strikes me dat I may be wrong, 

Pinin' dat-a-way. 
Ef folks changed aroun' so free, 

Comfort might be slim; 
P'raps I'd wish dat I wuz me, 

'Stid o' bein' him. 



<<5* «<5* c5* 



JIM BLUDSO OF "THE PRAIRIE BELLE.' 



WALL, no; I can't tell where he lives, 
Becase he don't live, you see ; 
Leastways, he's got out of the habit 

Of livin' like you and me. 
Whar have you been for the last three year 

That you haven't heard folks tell 
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
The night of the Prairie Belle? 

He weren't no saint — them engineers 

Is all pretty much alike — 
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, 

And another one here, in Pike. 
A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 

And an awkward hand in a row, 
But he never flunked, and he never lied — 

I reckon he never knowed how, 



And this was all the religion he had— 

To treat his engine well ; 
Never be passed on the river ; 

To mind the pilot's bell ; 
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire — 

A thousand times he swore 
He'd hold her nozzle ag'in' the bank 

Till the last soul got ashore. 

All boats has their day on the Mississip, 

And her day come at last — 
The Movastar was a better boat, 

But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. 
And so she come tearin' along that night — 

The oldest craft on the line — 
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, 

And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine 



152 



TOLD IN DIALECT. 



The fire burst out as she cleared the bar, 

And burnt a hole in the night, 
And quick as a flash she turned, and made 

For that wilier-bank on the right. 
There was runnin' and cursin,' but Jim 
yelled out 

Over all the infernal roar : 
"I'll hold her nozzle ag'in' the bank 

Till the last galoot's ashore." 

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin 
boat 

Jim Bludso's voice was heard, 
And they all had trust in his cussedness, 

And knowed he would keep his word. 



And, sure's you're born, they all got off 
Afore the smokestacks fell — 

And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 

He weren't no saint — but at jedgment 

I'd run my chance with Jim, 
'Longside o' some pious gentlemen 

That wouldn't shook hands with him. 
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing — 

And went for it thar and then ; 
And Christ ain't a goin' to be too hard 

On a man that died for men. 

—John Hay. 



*£& t&fc t&& 



YAWCOB STRAUSS. 



IHAF von funny leedle poy, 
Vot gomes shust to mine knee ; 
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, 
As efer you dit see. 

He runs, und schumps, und schmashes 
dings 

In all barts off der house: 
But vot off dot? he vas mine son, 

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 

Und cuts mine cane in dwo, 
To make der shticks to beat it mit, — 

Mine cracious dot vas drue ! 

I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart 

He kicks oop sooch a touse : 
But nefer mind; der poys vas few 

Like dflt young Yawcob Strauss. 

He asks me questions sooch as dese: 
Who baints mine nose so red ? 

Who vas it cut dot schmooth blace oudt 
From der hair upon mine hed? 



Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 

Vene'er der glim I douse? 
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 

To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? 

He get der measles und der mumbs, 

Und eferyding dot's oudt; 
He sbills mine glass off lager bier, 

Poots schnuff indo mine kraut. 

He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese, — ■ 
Dot vas der roughest chouse; 

I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy 
But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

I somedimes dink I schall go vild 

Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, 

Und beaceful dimes enshoy; 

But vhen he vas ashleep in ped, 

So guiet as a mouse, 
I prays der Lord, "Dake anyding, 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 

— Charles F. Adams, 



$$s 



— — — — — t— — — — — 0— — •— — 3— — — — — 

*£!£! Modern Dialogues and Plays 

s£>i ■ 





Characters. 


Gentlemen — 


Ladies — 


January. 


February. 


March. 


April. 


July. 


May. 


August. 


June. 


October. 


September 


December 


November. 



Any dialogue or play in this department can be presented upon any platform or stage erected 

in the school-room, church or home with little trouble and cost. All of the 

costumes are easily and inexpensively made. They embrace a wide 

variety suitable for every occasion both for adults and children. 

C^* *2r* *2* 

A pageant of the months. 

Robin, why don't you come and fetch your 
crumb ? 

Here's butter for my bunch of bread, 
And sugar for your crumb; 

Here's room upon the hearth-rug, 
If you'll only come. 

In your scarlet waistcoat, 
With your keen bright eye, 

Where are you loitering? 
Wings were made to fly! 

Make haste to breakfast, 
Come and fetch your crumb, 

For I'm as glad to see you 
As you are glad to come. 

(Tzvo Robin Redbreasts are seen tap- 
ping with their beaks at the lattice, which 
January opens and throws out crumbs to 
birds. A knock is heard at the door. Jan- 
uary hangs a guard in front of the fire, 
and opens to February, who appears with 
a bunch of snozvdrops in her hand.) 
January. 
Good-morrow, sister. 

February. 

Brother, joy to you! 
I've brought some snowdrops; only just a 

few, 
But quite enough to prove the world 
awake, 



Robin Redbreasts; Lambs and Sheep; 
Nightingale and Nestlings. 

Various Flowers, Fruits, etc. 
Scene: — A Cottage with its Grounds. 

(A room in a large, comfortable cot- 
tage; a fire burning on the hearth; a table 
on which the breakfast things have been 
left standing. January discovered seated 
at the fire.) 



January. 
Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, 
Dim the day until the cold dark night. 

[Stirs the fire.] 
Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers, glow; 
Some one may be plodding through the 

snow, 
Longing for a light, 
For the light that you and I can show. 
If no one else should come, 
Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a 

crumb, 
And never troublesome: 



iS3 



154 



MODEBN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew, 
And for the pale sun's sake. 

(She hands a few of her snowdrops to 
January, who retires into the background. 
While February stands arranging the re- 
maining snowdrops in a glass of water on 
the window-sill, a soft butting and bleat- 
ing are heard outside. She opens the door, 
and sees one foremost lamb, with other 
sheep and lambs bleating and crowding 
towards her.) 

February. 
O you, you little wonder, come — come in, 
You wonderful, you woolly, soft, white 

lamb: 
You panting mother ewe, come too, 
And lead that tottering twin 
Safe in: 

Bring all your bleating kith and kin, 
Except the horny ram. 

(February opens a second door in the 
background, and the little Hock Hies 
through into a warm and sheltered com- 
partment out of sight.) 

The lambkin tottering in its walk, 

With just a fleece to wear; 
The snowdrop drooping on its stalk 

So slender, — 

Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair, 

Braving the cold for our delight, 

Both white, 

Both tender. 

(A rattling of door and windows; 
branches seen without, tossing violently to 
and fro.) 
How the doors rattle, and the branches 

sway! 
Here's brother March comes whirling on 

his way, 
With winds that eddy and sing. 

(She turns the handle of the door, which 
bursts open, and discloses March hasten- 



ing up, both hands full of violets and 
anemones.) 

February. 

Come, show me what you bring; 

For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, 

And must away. 

March. 
(Stopping short on the threshold.) 
I blow and arouse, 
Through the world's wide house, 
To quicken the torpid earth: 
Grappling I fling 
Each feeble thing, 
But bring strong life to the birth. 
I wrestle and frown, 
And topple down; 
I wrench, I rend, I uproot; 
Yet the violet 
Is born where I set 
The sole of my flying foot. 

(Hands violets and anemones to Febru- 
ary, who retires into the background.) , 

And in my wake 

Frail wind-flowers quake, 
And the catkins promise fruit. 

I drive ocean ashore 

With rush and roar, 
And he cannot say me nay: 

My harpstrings all 

Are the forests tall, 
Making music when I play. 

And as others perforce, 

So I on my course 
Run and needs must run, 

With sap on the mount, 

And buds past count, 
And rivers and clouds and sun, 

With seasons and breath 

And time and death 
And all that has yet begun. 

(Before March has done speaking, a 
voice is heard approaching accompanied by 
a twittering of birds. April comes along 




■a 

d 



a d 

° d 

•r-l « 

i a 



a 2 

■h d 
o 

d +> 

■p d 

Ji Q 
CS o 

si 



d 
ft 

o 

ft 

* 

o 
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.4 

o 

f-c 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



157 



singing, and stands outside and out of sight 
to finish her song.) 

April. 
(Outside.) 
Pretty little three 
Sparrows in a tree, 
Light upon the wing; 
Though you cannot sing, 
You can chirp of Spring: 
Chirp of Spring to me, 
Sparrows, from your tree. 

Never mind the showers, 

Chirp about the flowers, 
While you build a nest: 
Straws from east and west, 
Feathers from your breast, 

Make the snuggest bowers 

In a world of flowers. 

You must dart away 
From the chosen spray, 

You intrusive third 
Extra little bird ; 
Join the unwedded herd! 
These have done with play, 
And must work to-day. 



April. 

(Appearing at the open door.) 
Good-morrow and good-bye : if others fly, 
Of all the flying months you're the most 
flying. 

March. 
You're hope and sweetness, April. 
April. 

Birth means dying, 
As wings and wind mean flying; 
So you and I and all things fly or die; 
And sometimes I sit sighing to think of 

dying. 
But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my show- 
ers,^ 
And a lapful of flowers, 



And these dear nestlings, aged three hours ; 
And here's their mother sitting, 
Their father merely flitting 
To find their breakfast somewhere in my 
bowers. 
(As she speaks April shows March her 
apron full of flowers and nest full of birds. 
March wanders away into the grounds. 
April, without entering the cottage, hangs 
over the hungry nestlings watching them.) 

April. 
What beaks you have, you funny things, 

What voices, shrill and weak; 
Who'd think anything that sings 
Could sing with such a beak? 
Yet you'll be nightingales some day 

And charm the country-side, 
When I'm away and far away, 
And May is queen and bride. 
(May arrives unperceived by April, and 
gives her a kiss. April starts and looks 
round.) 

April. 
Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good- 
bye. 

May. 
That's just your way, sweet April, smile 

and sigh; 
Your sorrows half in fun, 
Begun and done 
And turned to joy while twenty seconds 

run. 
At every step a flower 
Fed by your last bright shower, — 

(She divides an armful of all sorts of 
flowers with April, who strolls away 
through the garden.) 

May. 
And gathering flowers I listened to the 

song 
Of every bird in bower. 

The world and I are far too full of bliss, 
To think or plan or toil or care; 



158 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



The sun is waxing strong, 
The days are waning long, 
And all that is, 
Is fair. 

Here are May buds of lily and of rose, 
And here's my namesake-blossom, 
May; 
And from a watery spot 
See here, forget-me-not, 
With all that blows 
To-day. 

Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, 
Blackbird and lark and thrush and 
dove, 
And every nightingale 
And cuckoo tells its tale, 
And all they mean 
Is love. 

{June appears at the further end of the 
garden, coming slowly towards May, who 
seeing her, exclaims:) 

May. 
Surely you're come too early, sister June. 

June. 
Indeed I feel as if I came too soon 
To round your young May moon. 
And set the world a-gasping at my noon, 
Yet must I come. So here are strawberries, 
Sun-flushed and 'sweet, as many as you 

please ; 
And there are full-blown roses by the score, 
More roses and yet more. 

{May, eating strawberries, withdraws 
among the flower beds.) 
June. 
The sun does all my long day's work for 
me, 
Raises and ripens everything; 
I need but sit beneath a leafy tree 
And watch and sing. 
{Seats herself in the shadow of a labur- 
num. ) 



Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee, 

Or lulled by noontide's silence deep, 
I need but nestle down beneath my tree 
And drop asleep. 

{June falls asleep; and is not awakened 
by the voice of July, who behind the scenes 
is heard half singing, half calling. ) 
July. 
{Behind the scenes.) 
Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled, 
Which will you take? Yellow, blue, 

speckled ! 
Take which you will, speckled, blue, yel- 
low, 
Each in its way has not a fellow. 

{Enter July, a basket of many-colored 
irises swung upon his shoulders, a bunch 
of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled 
full of peaches balanced upon the other. 
He steals up to June, and tickles her with 
the grass. She wakes.) 
June. 
What, here already? 
July. 

Nay, my tryst is kept ; 
The longest day slipped by you while you 

slept. 
I've brought you one curved pyramid of 
bloom, 

{Hands her the plate.) 
Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where 
the bees, 
As downy, bask and boom 
In sunshine and in gloom of trees. 
But get you in, a storm is at my heels ; 
The whirlwind whistles and wheels, 
Lightning flashes and thunder peals, 
Flying and following hard upon my 

heels. 
{June takes shelter in a thickly-woven 
arbor.) 

July. 
The roar of a storm sweeps up 
From the east to the lurid west, 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



159 



The darkening sky, like a cup, 
Is filled with rain to the brink; 

The sky is purple and fire, 

Blackness and noise and unrest; 

The earth, parched with desire, 
Opens her mouth to drink. 

Send forth thy thunder and fire, 

Turn over thy brimming cup, 
O sky, appease the desire 

Of earth in her parched unrest; 
Pour out drink to her thirst, 

Her famishing life lift up; 
Make thyself fair as at first, 

With a rainbow for thy crest. 

Have done with thunder and fire, 
O sky with the rainbow crest; 

O earth, have done with desire, 
Drink, and drink deep, and rest. 

(Enter August, carrying a sheaf made 
up of different kinds of grain.) 

July. 
Hail, brother August, flushed and warm, 
And scathless from my storm. 
Your hands are full of corn, I see, 
As full as hands can be: 
And earth and air both smell as sweet as 

balm 
In their recovered calm, 
And that they owe to me. 

(July retires into the shrubbery.) 
August. 
Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, 

Barley bows a graceful head, 
Short and small shoots up canary, 

Each of these is some one's bread; 
Bread for man or bread for beast, 
Or at very least 
A bird's savory feast. 

Men are brethren of each other, 
One in flesh and one in food ; 



And a sort of foster brother, 
Is the litter, or the brood 

Of that folk in fur and feather, 
Who, with men together, 
Breast the wind and weather. 

(August descries September toiling 
across the lawn.) 

August. 
My harvest home is ended ; and I spy 
September drawing nigh 
With the first thought of Autumn in her 

eye, 
And the first sigh 

Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly. 
(September arrives, carrying upon her 
head a basket heaped high with fruit.) 

September. 
Unload me, brother. I have brought a few 
Plums and these pears for you, 
A dozen kinds of apples, one or two 
Melons, some figs all bursting through 
Their skins; and pearled with dew 
These damsons, violet-blue. 

(While September is speaking, August 
lifts the basket to the ground, selects vari- 
ous fruits, and withdraws slowly along the 
gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.) 
September. 
My song is half a sigh 
Because my green leaves die; 
Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are 
dying; 
And well may Autumn sigh, 
And well may I 
Who watch the sere leaves flying. 

My leaves that fade and fall, 

I note you one and all; 
I call you, and the Autumn wind is calling, 

Lamenting for your fall, 
And for the pall 
You spread on earth in falling. 



160 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



And here's a song of flowers to suit such 

hours : 
A song of the last lilies, the last flowers, 
Amid my withering bowers. 

In the sunny garden bed 

Lilies look so pale, 
Lilies droop the head 

In the shady, grassy vale; 
If all alike they pine 
In shade and in shine, 
If everywhere they grieve, 
Where will lilies live? 

(October enters briskly, some leafy 
twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one 
hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing 
after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck 
in his button-hole.) 

October. 
Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite 

over, 
Even if the year has done with corn and 

clover, 
With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, 

it's true, 
Some leaves remain, and some flowers too, 
For me and you. 
Now see my crops. 

[Offering his produce to September.] 
I've brought you nuts and hops ; 
And when the leaf drops, why the walnut 
drops. 
(October wreathes the hop-vines about 
September's neck, and gives her the nut 
twigs. They enter the cottage together, 
but zvithout shutting the door. She steps 
into the background; he advances to the 
hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the 
smouldering fire, and arranges several 
chestnuts ready to roast.) 
October. 
Crack your first nut, light your first fire, 
Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar, 



Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze 
higher ; 
Logs are as cheery as sun or as star, 
Logs we can find wherever we are. 

Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves, 
Spring, one bright day, will lure back the 
flowers ; 
Never fancy my whistling wind grieves, 
Never fancy I've tears in my showers; 
Dance, nights and days! and dance on, 
my hours. 

[Sees November approaching.] 
October. 
Here comes my youngest sister, looking 

dim 
And grim, 
With dismal ways. 
What cheer, November? 
November. 
(Entering and shutting the door.) 
Nought have I to bring, 
Tramping a-chill and shivering, 
Except these pine cones for a blaze, — 
Except a fog which follows, 
And stuffs up all the hollows, — 
Except a hoar frost here and there, — 
Except some shooting stars, 
Which dart their luminous cars, 
Trackless and noiseless through the keen 
night air. 

(October, shrugging his shoulders, with- 
draws into the background, while Novem- 
ber throws her pine cones on the fire and 
sits down listlessly.) 

November. 
The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired 

Of all that's high or deep; 
There's naught desired and naught re- 
quired 

Save a sleep. 

I rock the cradle of the earth, 
I lull her with a sigh; 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



161 



And know that she will wake to mirth 
By and bye. 

(Through the window December is seen 
running and leaping in the direction of the 
door. He knocks.) 

November. 

(Calls out without rising.) 

Ah, here's my youngest brother come at 

last: 
Come in, December. 

(He opens the door and enters, loaded 
with evergreens in berry, etc.) 

Come in and shut the door, 
For now it's snowing fast; 
It snows, and will snow more and more; 
Don't let it drift in on the floor. 
But you, you're all aglow ; how can you be 
Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold. 

December. 
Nay, no closed doors for me, 
But open doors and open hearts and glee 
To welcome young and old. 

Dimmest and brightest month am I ; 
My short days end, my lengthening days 

begin ; 
What matters more or less sun in the sky, 
When all is sun within? 



(He begins, making a wreath as he 
sings. ) 
Ivy and privet dark as night 

I weave with hips and haws a cheerful 
show, 
And holly for a beauty and delight, 

And milky mistletoe. 

While high above them all is set 

Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure 
and pale; 

Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet 
May keep, so sweet and frail; 

May keep each merry singing bird, 

Of all her happy birds that singing 
build: 
For I've a carol which some shepherds 
heard 
Once in a wintry field. 

(While December concludes his song, all 
the other months troop in from the garden, 
or advance out of the background. The 
twelve join hands in a circle, and begin 
dancing round to a stately measure as the 
Curtain falls.) 

— Christina G. Rossetti. 



t£& tv* fcT* 



PAT DOLAN'S WEDDING. 



Characters. 

Nicholas Neverslip, a modem hus- 
band. 

Patrick Dolan, an Irish lad. 

Matilda, Neverslip' s wife. 

Miss Spyall, a gossip. 

Biddy Crogan, a domestic. 

Scene: — A drawing room. Time, even- 
ing. Table and two chairs, C. Nicholas 
discovered standing near L. E. with cane 
and gloves in hands: he calls to his wife, 
zvho is supposed to be up stairs dressing 
for the opera. 



Nicholas. — My dear, it is half-past sev- 
en; do hurry; I am sure we will be late. 

Matilda. — I am coming — be with you 
in one minute. Has Biddy fastened the 
back gate? 

Nicholas (aside). — I know we'll be late 
(calls), Biddy! (crosses to R. E.) 

Biddy. — I'm here, sur. [Enter Biddy 
R. E.] What do you want wid me, sur? 

Nicholas. — Biddy is the back gate fast- 
ened? 

Biddy. — I'll see, sur, (turns to go.) 

Nicholas. — Biddy ! 



162 



MODERN DIALGOUES AND PLAYS. 



Biddy. — Sur ! 

Nicholas. — Biddy, I am going to the 
opera; that is, we are, Mrs. Neverslip and 
myself. 

Matilda ( calls ) . — Nicholas ! 

Nicholas. — Well, what's the matter? 

Matilda. — Where did you lay my fan? 

Nicholas. — I never touched your fan. 
(looks at his watch.) It is twenty minutes 
to eight; I declare we will be late. 

Biddy (aside). — I wonder if he means 
to keep me shtandin' here all night? 

Nicholas (to Matilda). — I am going! 

Matilda. — Here I come. 

Nicholas. — It is time you were coming. 

Matilda.— Oh, dear! 

Nicholas. — What's the matter? 

Matilda. — Oh, you've hurried me so 
I've gone and dressed without my fichu; I # 
can never go without it. 

Nicholas (aside). — Confound her fish- 
hook, (aloud) Snails and turtles ! are you 
never coming? 

Biddy (aside). — I'm nather a gate post 
nur a clothes prop, (aloud) Mr. Never- 
slip, I'll be goin' to the kitchen; I lift the 
banes on the sthove; I think they're burn- 
in'. [Exit Biddy R. E.] 

Nicholas. — For mercy sake do come. 

Matilda (singing). — I am coming, 
darling, coming 

Nicholas. — How provokingly cool you 
are. 

[Enter Matilda L. E.] 

Matilda. — Now, my dear, we'll be off. 
[Both start toward L. E.] Why, where's 
your hat? 

Nicholas (feels his head). — Good gra- 
cious! It is up stairs — Matilda, dear, will 
you get it for me? 

Matilda. — You cruel man (knock 

heard from without.) 

Both. — Horrors ! Some one at the door ! 
Nicholas. — Biddy ! 



[Enter Biddy R. E.] 

Biddy. — Ay, sur! 

Nicholas. — -Biddy, we're out. 

Biddy. — Yer what? 

Nicholas. — We're out; that is, we soon 
will be. We do not wish to see anyone — 
you comprehend? 

Biddy (angrily). — Don't want to see 
anyone. I comprehend ! Sur, I'm an hon- 
est Irish girl, and I niver comprehend any- 
body, (arms akimbo) Niver! 

[Prolonged knock at the door.] 
Nicholas. — Go to the door and say 

we're out! 

Biddy (aside). — The man is surely out 

of his head. 

[Exit Biddy L. E.] 

Matilda. — Oh my! we'll never get off. 

Nicholas. — My dear, it's all your own 
fault. 

Matilda (puts handkerchief to eyes). — 
Dear, dear! Nicholas. Hark! 

Miss Spyall (from without). — Take 
this card to 

Biddy (from without). — They're out, 
mum. 

Miss Spyall. — Then I'll just step in a 
moment and write a line or two. 

Biddy. — But they're out. 

Matilda. — Oh grief! It is that awful 
Spyall; good-bye opera to-night. 

Nicholas. — We might as well give up 
now. 

[Enter Biddy L. E. walking backward 
follozved by Miss Spyall.] 

Miss Spyall (aside). — Out of 'the 
street; ah! I understand! (Extends hands 
to Nicholas and Matilda) — (aloud) How 
delighted I am to see you ! What ! going 
out? 

Biddy. — Yis, out; they're out — outward 
bound, I forgot part of the wurruds. 

Nicholas. — Silence, Bridget ! 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



163 



Matilda. — We need you no longer, 
Biddy. 

Biddy. — Indade, ye'll give me two 
wakes' notice. I'll not lave now. 

Matilda. — I mean we do not need you 
here. You may go to the kitchen. Oh, 
bother! My hair is coming down. Biddy 
get me a hair-pin, quick! 

[Exit Biddy R. £.] 

Miss Spyall. — What a beautiful dress; 
is it all silk? 

Nicholas. — Part muslin, Miss. 

Matilda. — Nicholas, you shock me. 

Nicholas (Pulls out watch and starts 
to go). — Oh, oh, oh! 

Miss Spyall. — Going to church? 

Nicholas. — No, not to church. 

Miss Spyall. — Oh, I see; the museum. 

Nicholas. — We have an engagement. 

Miss Spyall. — A wedding? That's it! 
I know. Who is it? Do tell me if it is 
Nancy Beadle? I thought she and John — 

Matilda. — My husband and I are about 
going down town on important business, 
it is time we were there now. 

Miss Spyall. — Anything important ? 
You know I can be trusted. 

Nicholas.— Gone ! gone! gone! 

Miss Spyall.— Hey? 

Matilda. — Miss Spyall, you will please 
excuse me this evening, we must go at 
once. 

[Enter Biddy R. E. with clothes-pins in 
each hand.] 

Nicholas (pointing to watch). — We've 
lost our seats. (Matilda and Miss Spyall 
take seats.) 

Biddy (to Nicholas). — Niver moind me; 
still, I'll bring two chairs from the dining- 
room if ye insist. (To Matilda) Here's 
the puns, mum. 

Matilda. — Stupid girl, these are clothes- 
pins. 



Miss Spyall. — What a silly creature. 

Biddy (aside). — The spalpeen! 

Nicholas. — Excuse me. I must get my 
hat. [Exit L. E.] 

Matilda. — Oh, he's a darling man ! 

Miss Spyall. — Spe-len-did! 

(A crash is heard.) 

Matilda. — What have you done? 

Nicholas (groans). — Broken my shins, 
smashed my hat and upset your toilet 
stand ! 

Matilda. — You wretch — edly unfortu- 
nate man. 

[Enter Nicholas L. E. limping with 
smashed hat in hand.] 

Miss Spyall. — I must be going. 

Matilda. — We are going to the opera. 

Nicholas. — To hear the final chorus. 

Miss Spyall. — How delightful! 

Matilda. — Biddy, keep a sharp look out. 
[Exit all except Biddy L. E.] 

Biddy. — Yis, I'll kape a sharp look out. 
I'll first take a look at the back gate. Poor 
Pat's been waitin' at that same gate for a 
whole hour; faith he's stharved wid the 
cold (starts and listens) Arrah, what's 
that? Sure some one's in the kitchen. I 
hear a brogan on the stairs — the saints pro- 
tect me. [Enter Pat R. E., looking around 
cautiously.] Oh, Pat Dolan! How dare ye 
frighten me loike that? How did ye enter 
the house ? — What if the folks had been in ? 

Pat. — Whist, me darlin'; I saw them 
lave by the front door, and in the wink of 
an eye, it's meself that lepped over the 
fence; I thried the back door, it was un- 
latched, and here I am, Biddy dear! 

Biddy. — Niver do the loikes of that 
again. You might be shot for a burglar 
or a dynamiter. 

Pat. (sitting at table). — Niver fear, 
Biddy dear; go ye and bring a crust of 
bread and sup of — of something stronger 
than tay, if yer have it ; sure I've room here 



164 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



for a loaf, and I'm thrimblin' wid wake- 
ness 

Biddy. — I'll see what's lift in the pantry. 
Be aisy till I come back. (Starts to go.) 

Pat.— Biddy ! 

Biddy. — What, darlint? (Pauses.) 

Pat. — Do ye hear anything? 

Biddy. — It's the Niverslips! Run for 
your life ! 

Pat. — Be aisy; it's me poor heart beat- 
in'; and nothin' more. It always bates 
whin I see that face. 

Biddy (Looks over her shoulder). — 
What face? I see no face! 

Pat. — Don't be a greenhorn. I mane 
your own lovely countenance. 

Biddy. — Oh, ye blarney ! 

[Exit R. E.] 

Pat. (Rises from chair and walks up 
and down the stage). — Humph! this is a 
very foine house. It lacks the comforts of 
a home, howiver, for there's not the sign 
of a pipe or a 'bacca bowl about the room. 
They're evidently mane people. 

[Enter Biddy R. E. carrying tray, on 
which are loaf of bread, a knife, a black 
bottle and two glasses.] 

Look at that now! If that isn't the tip 
of hospitality my name's not Patrick 
Dolan. 

Biddy (places tray on table). — Now, 
Pat, ye must not trifle over the sup, (fills 
glass from bottle) but drink it at once. It 
would niver do to have the folks foind ye 
here. 

Pat (takes glass). — Here's to our wed- 
ding day (drinks), Oh! ah! (jumps to his 
feet and runs about stage holding his 
throat) I'm pizened, I'm kilt. 

Biddy (following him about). — Shpeak, 
shpeak, me darlint Pat. 

Pat (gasping and pointing to bottle). — 
Look — look — look at that! What's in the 
bottle? 



Biddy. — Sure I can't read. (Hands bot- 
tle to Pat.) 

Pat. — Saint Patrick defind me! (reads) 
"Pure Jamaica Ginger," Oh! it's atin me 
up! (Noise heard without.) 

Biddy. — Hark! (Both listen.) 

Nicholas (from without). — We should 
have taken an umbrella; hurry in or we 
shall be drowned with the rain. 

Pat (agitated). — Put me away! hide 
me! cover me up! 

Biddy. — Run! No — shtop — they're here! 
get under the table. 

Pat (crawls under table).— Bad luck to 
the rain ! 

Biddy.— Arrah ! What shall I do? He's 
opening the door wid the noight key. Kape 
shtill, Pat. 

Nicholas. — Walk in Miss Spyall; it is 
only a shower. 

[Enter Neverslip, Matilda and Miss Spy- 
all L. E.] 

Miss Spyall (aside). — Refreshments, 
as I live! (Aloud) I feel real chilly! If 
I were home I'd have a bowl of hot tea, or 
something warm. 

Biddy. — I was thinkin' mum, that ye 
might be cold. 

Matilda.— What's that, Biddy? 

Biddy. — I thought ye'd need a warrum 
drink and a bite, so I've the bottle and 
bread handy for yez. (Points to bottle.) 

Nicholas (takes bottle). — Jamaica Gin- 
ger. 

Matilda. — The idea! Bread and gin- 
ger. Why, Biddy, you are certainly be- 
coming insane. 

Miss Spyall (aside). — I thought they 
were too mean to have cake and wine, I 
thought it was a pound cake. How disap- 
pointed and hungry I feel. (Aloud) I won- 
der if it still rains ? 

Nicholas. — Be seated, ladies. Biddy, 
go to the door, and see if it has stopped 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



165 



raining. — (Matilda and Miss Spy all take 
seats at table). 

I will see if I can find an umbrella for 
Miss Spyall. [Exit L. E.] 

Pat. — (Pat's head rises slowly from be- 
hind table). 

Miss Spyall. — Does Mr. Neverslip 
smoke much? 

Matilda. — Never at all. Why do you 
ask? 

Miss Spyall. — I thought I detected a 
strong odor of an old pipe. 

Pat (aside). — Ye spalpeen! (Pulls her 
ear and stoops behind table.) 

Miss Spyall. — Oh! (indignantly). 
Don't do that again. I dislike such famil- 
iarity. 

Matilda (astonished). — Why, what's 
the matter with you? 

Miss Spyall. — I guess if I were to pull 
your ear you would know how it feels. 
There! (They turn their backs to each 
other angrily). 

(Pat peeps from under table and pulls 
Matilda's ear). 

Matilda (springing to her feet). — You 
impudent gossip! How dare you? (Rubs 
her ear.) If you want exercise, try pedes- 
trianism; I will excuse your presence. 
(Points to door). 

Miss Spyall (rising and backing off). 

— I am shocked beyond expression, (aside) 

If I only get out — the woman's surely mad. 

[Enter Nicholas L. E. with umbrella'] 

Matilda. — My dear, give Miss Spyall 
the umbrella; she is surely ill and should 
get home with all possible speed. 

Miss Spyall. — Not at all, not at all, sir ; 
it is your insolent wife who needs your at- 
tention. 

Nicholas.— What is the meaning of 
such singular language? (Picks up bot- 
tle.) You have not been tampering with 
this? 



[Enter Biddy R. E. holding shawl in 
her hands. ,] 

Biddy. — Look at me shplendid shawl! 
An illigant present that oi've just received. 
(unfolds shawl and advances towards rear 
of table). 

Nicholas. — Some other time, Biddy; 
we are engaged at present. 

Miss Spyall (aside). — The whole fam- 
ily are certainly crazy. 

Matilda. — I'm in no humor to look at 
shawls ; I prefer taking a dissolving view 
of somebody's back. (Looks at Miss Spy- 
all.) 

Biddy (holds up shawl with both hands). 
— Pat, get behind the shawl. 

Pat. — (crawls behind the shawl, screens 
himself from view, and moves off with 
Biddy). 

Biddy (backing tozvards the door). — It 
shows better at a distance, mum. 

Nicholas (advancing to Biddy). — This 
must cease. 

Biddy. — Don't come too close; ye'll 
shpoil the effect. 

Matilda. — Take the shawl from her. 

Nicholas. — Let me have it. (Pulls 
shawl from Biddy, exposing Pat to view). 

Pat (bowing). — Yez'll pa r don me, but I 
was always bashful. 

Nicholas. — Explain yourself, at once! 

Matilda. — Look after the teaspoons ! 

Miss Spyall (aside). — Here's a nut to 
crack! Here's a scandal. 

Biddy (crying and holding apron to 
eyes). — I'll tell yez the truth. Patsy and 
meself are engaged to be married, and 
seein' as I was to be lift alone in this big 
barn of a house, an' bein' timid, the poor 
man jist happened in to kape me company 
for a few minutes. 

Pat. — What she says is intirely true, 
your honors ; it's meself that can bring a 
reference the lingth of me arrum. 



166 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Nicholas. — Enough. Biddy is too good 
a girl to be guilty of even a wrong thought. 
Our spoons are safe, and I (all advancing 
to front) have but one suggestion to make, 
that in future you entertain him in the 
kitchen, where you will not be likely to be 
disturbed by unwelcome visitors. 

Matilda. — If I thought I would be free 
from unwelcome visitors (looking at Miss 
Spyall) I'd go to the kitchen too. 

Pat. — The nixt kitchen we mate in will 



be the kitchen of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick 
Dolan ; how do you loike that ? 

Miss Spyall (aside). — Well I'm sup- 
plied with a lot of fresh news anyhow. 
(All take positions.) 

Nicholas. — And as there appears to be 
a wedding near at hand, we must prepare 
for it ; so we'll say good night — and dream 
of getting ready. 

[curtain.] 

— Geo. M. Vickers. 



t&& s3* t&™ 



the unhappy home. 



A TEMPERANCE PLAY. 



(Characters — Man and his wife; Nellie, a daughter, ten years old; Friend, dressed in a man- 
of-the-world style; A. and B., two young men, dressed in business suits.) 



Scene I. 

MR. L. and his wife on the stage; Mr. 
L. dressed for his work, and about 
to go.) 

Mrs. L. — Albert, I wish you would give 
me seventy-five cents. 

Mr. L. — What do you want seventy-five 
cents for? 

Mrs. L. — I want to get some braid for 
my new dress. 

Mr. L. — Haven't you something else that 
will do? 

Mrs. L. — No. But, then, braid is cheap ; 
and I can make it look quite pretty with 
seventy-five cents. 

Mr. L. — Plague take these women's 
fashions. Your endless trimmings and 
thing-a-ma-jigs cost more than the dress 
is worth. It is nothing but shell out money 
when a woman thinks of a new dress. 

Mrs. L. — I don't have many new 
dresses. I do certainly try to be as econom- 
ical as I can. 

Mr. L. — It is funny kind of economy, at 
all events. But if you must have it, I sup- 
pose you must. 



(Takes out his purse, and counts out 
carefully seventy-live cents, and puts his 
purse azvay angrily. He starts to go; but 
when at the door, he thinks he will take his 
umbrella, and goes back for it. Finds his 
wife in tears, which she tries hastily to 
conceal.) 

Mr. L. — Good gracious ! Kate, I should 
like to know if you are crying at what I 
said about the dress. 

Mrs. L. — I was not crying at what you 
said. I was thinking of how hard I have 
to work. I am tied to the house. I have 
many little things to perplex me. Then 
to think — 

Mr. L. — Pshaw ! What do you want to 
be foolish for? (Exit.) 

(In the hall he was met by his little girl, 
Lizzie. ) 

Lizzie — (holding both his hands.) Oh, 
papa, give me fifteen cents. 

Mr. L. — What in the world ao you want 
it for ? Are they changing books again ? 

Lizzie — No. I want a hoop. It's splen- 
did rolling; and all the girls have one. 
Please, can't I have one? 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



167 



Mr. L. — Nonsense ! If you want a hoop, 
go and get one off some old barrel. 
(Throws her off.) 

Lizzie — (in a pleading tone.) Please, 
Papa? 

Mr. L. — No, I told you ! 

(She bursts into tears, and he goes off 
muttering, "Cry, then, and cry it out.") 
Scene II. 

(Albert and Wife enter.) 

Mrs. L. — I am glad you are home thus 
early. How has business gone to-day? 

Mr. L. — Well, I am happy to say. 

Mrs. L. — Are you very tired? 

Mr. L. — No; why? 

Mrs. L. — I want you to go to the sew- 
ing circle to-night. 

Mr. L. — I can't go; I have an engage- 
ment. 

Mrs. L. — I am sorry. You never go with 
me now. You used to go a great deal. 

(Just then Lizzie comes in crying, drag- 
ging an old hoop, and rubbing her eyes.) 

Mr. L. — What is the matter with you, 
darling? 

Lizzie — The girls have been laughing at 
me, and making fun of my hoop. They 
say mine is ugly and homely. Mayn't I 
have one now? 

Mr. L. — Not now, Lizzie; not now. I'll 
think of it. 

(Lizzie goes out crying, follozved by her 
mother. A friend of Mr. L. enters.) 

Friend— Hello, Albert! What's up? 

Mr. L. — Nothing in particular. Take a 
chair. 

Friend — How's business? 

Mr. L. — Good. 

Friend — Did you go to the club last 
night ? 

Mr. L. — Don't speak so loud ! 

Friend— Ha, wife don't know — does 
she ? Where does she think you go ? 

Mr. L. — I don't know. She never asks 



me, and I am glad of it. She asked me 
to go with her to-night, and I told her I 
was engaged. 

Friend — Good ! I shan't ask you where, 
but take it for granted that it was with me. 
What do you say f 01 a game of billiards ? 

Mr. L.— Good! I'm for that. (They 
rise to go.) Have a cigar, Tom? 

Friend — Yes. (They go out.) 
Scene III. 

(Two men in conversation.) 

B. — Billiards? No, I never play billiards. 

A.— Why not? 

B. — I don't like its tendency. I cannot 
assert that the game is, of itself, an evil, 
to be sure. But, although it has the ad- 
vantage of calling forth skill and judgment, 
yet it is evil when it stimulates beyond 
the bounds of healthy recreation. 

A. — That result can scarcely follow such 
a game. 

B. — You are wrong there. The result 
can follow in two ways. First, it can lead 
men away from their business. Secondly, 
it leads those to spend their money who 
have none to spend. Look at that young 
man just passing. He looks like a me- 
chanic; and I should judge from his ap- 
pearance that he has a family. I see by 
his face that he is kind and generous, and 
wants to do as near right as he can. I 
have watched him in the billiard saloon 
time after time, and only last night I saw 
him pay one dollar and forty cents for two 
hours' recreation. He did it cheerfully, 
too, and smiled at his loss. But how do 
you suppose it is at home? 

A. — Upon my word, B., you speak to 
the point ; for I know that young man, and 
what you have said is true. I can furnish 
you with facts. We have a club for a lit- 
erary paper in our village. His wife was 
very anxious to take it; but he said he 
could not afford the $1.25 for it. And his 



168 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



little Lizzie, ten years old, has coaxed her 
father for fifteen cents, for a hoop, in vain. 
My Nellie told me that. 
B. — Yes; and that two hours' recreation 



last night, would have paid for both. It is 
well for wives and children that they do 
not know where all the money goes. 



t&* 1£& t£& 



LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD, or THE WICKED WOLF 
AND THE VIRTUOUS WOOD-CUTTER. 



Characters : 

Jack, the woodcutter, who rescues Red 
Riding-Hood from the Wolf, quite by ac- 
cident. 

The Wolf, a wicked wretch, who pays 
his devours to Little Red Riding-Hood, 
but is defeated by his rival. 

Dame Margery, mother of Little Red 



Riding- Hood, a crusty role, and very ill- 
bred. 

Little Red Riding-Hood, a fascinating 
little pet, so lovely that you are not likely 
to see two such faces under a hood. 

The Fairy Felicia, a beneficent genius, 
versed in spells, and quite au fait in magic. 

Granny, an invisible old girl, by kind 
permission of the Prompter. 



[The dresses are easily enough made, with the exception of the Wolf's. A rough shawl 
or a fur jacket will answer the purpose, and the head can be made of pasteboard. There is 
always someone in a community, however small, with ingenuity for such work. 

The Butterfly in Scene II is affixed to wire held at the wings. The Prompter reads the 
part of Granny, standing close to the bed, in order to assist in getting rid of the Dummy 
when Wolf is supposed to eat it.] 



Scene I. 

The outside of Little Red Riding-Hood's 
Cottage. Enter Red Riding-Hood's 
Mother. She runs about the stage look- 
ing for her child. 



M 



OTHER. Red Riding-Hood! Red 
Riding-Hood, I say! 
Where can the little monkey hide 
away ? 

Red Riding-Hood! O dreary, 
dreary me! 

Provoking child, where ever 
can she be ! [Looks off on 
both sides.] 

She is a shocking disobedient 
child, 

Enough to drive a loving moth- 
er wild; 

But stay! where are the butter 
and the cake 



she 



That to her grandmother 
has to take? 

Fetches basket from cottage and shows 
cake and butter. 

Here is the cake, and here's the 

butter, see! 
The nicest cake and butter that 

could be. 
These in the basket I will neatly 

lay, 
A present to poor Granny to 

convey. 
They are not tithes, though 

given to the wicker; 
Puts them in basket. 
Bless me, I wish the child were 

only quicker! 
Red Riding-Hood, Red Riding- 
Hood! Dear, dear! 
Enter Little Red Riding-Hood. 
R. R.-H. Here I am, ma. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



169 



Mother. You wicked puss, come here ! 
Take this to Granny! Poor 

old soul, she's ill; 
Give her my love and these tid- 
bits. 
R. R.-H I will. 

Won't it be nice? Through 

wood and field I'll walk, 
And have with Jack, perhaps, 

a little talk. 
Dear Jack ! At thought of him 

why quickly beat, heart? 
Dear Jack! he's no Jack-pud- 
ding, but a sweet-tart! 
Won't I catch butterflies and 
gather flowers! 
Mother. Mind you don't dawdle and be 
gone for hours, 
But go straight there and back 

again with speed, 
And do not loiter in lane, wood, 

or mead, 
Or else a great big wolf shall 

come to eat you; 
At any rate your loving moth- 
er'll beat you! 
Threatens R. R.-H. with stick. Enter 
Jack, at back. 

Jack. Where is Red Riding-Hood, 

my heart's delight? 
La, there's her mother! What 
• a horrid fright! 
Mother. What are you doing here, you 
rascal Jack? 
Be off, or I will hit your head a 
crack. [Strikes at him, 
but misses.] 
Jack. Before your hits, ma'am, I pre- 

fer a miss; 
Bows to R. R.-H. 
So blow for blow, I mean to 
blow a kiss. [Kisses hand 
to R. R.-H.] 
Mother. Kisses to bio — 



Jack. Hush ! don't be coarse and low : 

If you don't like my company, 

I'll go; 
Your words are violent, your 

temper quick, 
So this young woodcutter will 
cut his stick. 
He and R. R.-H. exchange signs, blow 
kisses, etc. Exit Jack. 
Mother (to R. R.-H.). That spark is not 
your match, and you're to 
blame. 
To take delight in such a paltry 

flame. 
Now go ; and lose no time upon 

the road, 
But hasten straight to Grand- 
mother's abode. 
R. R.-H. I will not loiter, mother, by the 
way, 
Nor go in search of butterflies 

astray. 
Instead of picking flowers, my 

steps I'll pick, 
And take the things to Granny, 

who is sick. 
Good-by, dear mother. 
Mother (kisses her.) There, my dear, 

good-by. 
R. R.-H. See how obedient to your word 

I fly! 
Mother. A one-horse fly! What non- 
sense you do talk! 
You have no wings, and so of 

course must walk. 
You go afoot. How now, miss? 
Wherefore smile? 
R. R.-H. Why go afoot? I've not to go 
a mile; 
That was the reason, mother, 
why I smiled. 
Mother. That joke's so far-fetched, that 
it's very miled. [Exeunt. 



170 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Scene II. 

A Forest Glade. Enter Red Riding-Hood. 
R. R.-H. How nice the wood is, with its 
cool green shade! 
I must sit down and rest here, 

I'm afraid; 
Though mother would declare 

I'm only lazy. 
I'm very tired and weary. 
[Yawns, then sees flower 
and starts.] Lawk! a 
daisy! [Picks flowers.] 
It can't be wrong some pretty 

flowers to pull ; 
With them I'll fill my little 

apron full, 
And take to please my poor old 
granny's eye. 
Butterfly flies across the stage. 

O, isn't that a lovely butterfly? 

[Runs after it.] 
Stop, little butterfly, a moment, 
do. 
Tries to catch it, and runs into the arms of 
Jack, who enters. 
I've caught it. 
Jack. Beg your pardon, I've caught 

you. [Kisses her.] 
R. R.-H. Don't you be rude, sir! Fie, 

why treat me thus! 
Jack. You thought to take a fly, I 

took a bus. 
I love you, pretty maid! Sup- 
pose we say 
That we'll be married? Just 
you fix the day. [Em- 
braces her.] 
R. R.-H. You're very pressing, sir ! Well, 
let me see: 
Next Wednesday a wedding's 
day shall be. 
Jack. An earlier date far better, dear, 

will do; 



Jack. 
R. R.-H. 

Jack. 

R. R.-H. 



Say, why not Tuesday as the 

day for two? 
Another kiss! 
R. R.-H. A kiss? O dear me, no! 

Farewell. To poor old Granny's 

I must go, 
For mother has commanded me 

to take 
The poor old soul some butter 

and a cake. 
I'm off to work, then. 
Whither you go pray? 
I'm not quite sure, but mean to 

axe my way. [Exit. 

Now I must hurry off to 

Granny. 
Fairy appears. 

Law! 
How lovely! such a sight I 

never saw. 
Fairy. I am a fairy, and your friend, 

my dear; 
You'll need my aid, for there is 

danger near. 
Your disobedience to your 

mother's will 
Has given bad fairies power to 

work you ill. 
Thanks, beauteous fairy. But 

no harm I meant, 
And of my disobedience much 

repent. 
I know it, and will therefore 

prove your friend; 
You shall o'ercome your 

troubles in the end. 
Remember when your case my 

help demands, 
You've naught to do save 

simply clap your hands. 

Exit Fairy. 
R. R.-H. How very sorry I am now 

that I 



R. R.-H. 



Fairy. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



171 



Was disobedient: let the time 

slip by, 
Neglected Granny and my 

mother's words, 
To gather flowers and list to 

singing birds, 
To hunt the butterflies. Twas 

wrong, I fear — 
But, goodness gracious me, 
what have we here? 
Enter Wolf. 
Wolf. O, what a very pretty little girl ! 

Such rosy cheeks, such hair, so 
nice in curl! 
(Aside.) As tender as a chicken, too, 
I'll lay; 
One doesn't get such tidbits ev- 
ery day. 
(To R. R.-H.) What brings you wander- 
ing in the wood like this, 
And whither are you going, 
pretty miss? 
R. R.-H. I'm bound for Granny's cot- 
tage, but I fear 
I've strayed from the right path 

in coming here. 
I'm taking her a currant-cake 

and butter; 
So nice, their excellence no 
tongue can utter. 
Wolf (aside). However excellent, I'll bet 
I lick it ; 
As to the cake, I'll gobble 
pretty quick it. 
(To R. R.-H.) And where does Granny 

live? 
R. R.-H. Not far from this; 

It's near the river. 
Wolf (pointing off). Then, my little miss, 
Along that path you have but 

to repair, 
And very shortly you will find 
you're there. 



R. R.-H. O, thank you; now I'll go. 

[Exit. 
Wolf. And I'll be bound 

You'll find that same short cut 

a long way round. 
The nearest road to the cottage 

take, 
And of old Granny I short 

work will make, 
And then I'll gobble you up, 

little dear. 
I didn't like to try and eat you 

here; 
You might object to it — some 

people do — 
And scream and cry, and make 

a hubbuboo ; 
And there's a woodcutter, I 

know, hard by, 
From whose quick hatchet 

quick-catch-it should I! 
Here goes to bolt old Granny 

without flummery, 
A spring — and then one swal- 
low shall be summery! 

[Exit. 

Scene III. 

Interior of Grandmother's cottage. On 
the right hand, close to the wing, a bed 
zvith a dummy in it with a large night- 
cap. Wolf is heard knocking. 

Granny (spoken from the zving close by 

the bed). Who's there? 

Wolf (imitating R. R.-H.) Your little 

grandchild, Granny dear. 

Granny. That child has got a shocking 

cold, that's clear. 

Some carelessness — she's got 

her feet wet through 
With running in the rain or 

heavy dew, 
Perhaps without her bonnet; 
and, of course, 



172 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



The little donkey is a little 

hoarse. 
Her words she used not croak- 

ingly to utter — 
What do you want? 
Wolf. I've brought you cake and but- 

ter, 
But can't come in, the door my 
strength defies. 
Granny. Pull at the bobbin, and the latch 
will rise. 
Enter Wolf. 
Granny. How are you, little darling? 
Wolf. Darling ! Pooh ! 

You didn't bolt your door, so 
I'll bolt you ! 
Granny. O, mercy! murder! what is this 
I see? 
Some frightful spectre must the 
monster be ! 
Wolf. Don't make a noise, for you're 

a hopeless hobble in; 
I'm not a ghost, but soon shall 
be a gobble-in' ! 
Wolf flings himself on the bed; shrieks 
and grozvls are heard. The dummy is 
removed without the audience being able 
to see it, as Wolf is in front of it. 
Wolf (coming down). Yahen ! yahen! 
yahen! yahen! yahen! 
I've finished her ere she could 

angry be with me. 
I didn't give her time to dis- 
agree with me. 
Now for a night-gown (takes 
0;t£)anda night-cap (takes 
one). Good! [Puts them 
on.] 
How do I look as Grandma 
Riding-Hood ? 
Gets into bed and covers himself up. A 

knock is heard at the door. 
Wolf (imitating Granny's voice). Who's 
there ? 



R. R.-H. Your little grandchild, Granny 
dear; 
I have a cake and butter for 
you here. 
Wolf Pull at the bobbin and the latch 

will rise. 
Enter R. R.-H. 
R. R.-H. Good morning, Granny! here 
are the supplies. 
Sets dozvn basket 
Wolf. Good morning, dear, come sit 

beside my bed. 
I'm very bad indeed, child, in 
my head. 
R. R.-H. sits on the side of bed. 
R. R.-H. Why, Granny, what big ears 

you've got? 
Wolf. My dear, 

That is that Granny may the 
better hear. 
R. R.-H. And, Granny, what big eyes 

you've got! 
Wolf. Dear me! 

That is that Granny may the 
better see. 
R. R.-H. Then, Granny, what big teeth 

you've got? O, la! 
Wolf. To eat you up with all the better. 
[Springs out of bed and 
strikes an attitude.] Ha! 
R. R.-H. screams, and runs away; Wolf 
pursues her round the table. 
Enter Jack. 
Jack. As I was passing by, I just 

dropt in. [To Wolf.] 
Shall I drop into you? 
Wolf. O, pray begin! 

Jack. You hideous brute, your wicked 

game I'll stop. 
Hits Wolf with axe. 
How do you like that, monster? 
Wolf. That's first chop ! 

Jack. That isn't all — another chop to 

follow ! 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



173 



Strikes him again. They struggle. Wolf 
falls with a loud cry. 

Don't halloa, sir! 
Wolf. I must — I'm beaten hollow; 

You've felled me to the earth. 
Jack. Yes, I'm the feller! 

I'll beat you black and blue. 
Wolf (aside). Then I'll turn yeller! 
Goes into convulsions, shrieks, and feigns 
to be dead. Jack flings down axe, and 
embraces R. R.-H. 
R. R.-H. You've saved my life, dear 
Jack! What can I do 
To show my love and gratitude 
to you? 
Jack. Sweetest Red Riding-Hood, 

say you'll be mine, 
To jine our hands the parson 
I'll en jine. 
Wolf creeps behind them, and secures the 

axe. 
Wolf (leaping up). That en-gine won't 

assist you, tender pair ; 
Snatches up R. R.-H. with one arm, brand- 
ishing axe. 
If that's your line, why I shall 
raise the fare. 
Jack. He's got the axe — O, here's a 

nice quandary! 
R. R.-H. (claps hands). You'll raise the 
fare? Then I will raise 
the fairy ! 
Fairy appears at the back. Enter R. R.- 

H.'s Mother. 
Mother. You wicked child, where have 
you been? Oho! 
You're listening to the shoot of 

that young beau ! 
But I'll forbid it, and I'll have 
my way. 



Fairy comes forward. 
Fairy. Excuse me, but your orders I 

gainsay. 
Mother. Who are you, madam, I should 

like to ask? 
Fairy. I am the Fairy of the Wood, 
whose task 
It is to aid the weak against 

the strong, 
And set things right when they 

are going wrong. 
You, Master Wolf, please keep 

that hatchet ready; 
For that sad jest of eating the 

old lady, 
You shall die, jester, by that 

very tool! 
Dame Margery, you have acted 
like a fool. 
Mother. Good Mistress Fairy, why, 

what have I done? 
Fairy. Jack is no peasant, but a 
prince's son, 
Stolen from the crib by an old 

cribbing gypsy, 
When he was little and his 
nurse was tipsy. 
Mother. You don't say! 
Jack. I a prince! 

R. R.-H. Good gracious, mother! 

Is he that 'ere? 
Fairy. He's that heir, and no other. 

Your mother won't reject his 

house and lands, 
Though she did him ; so here I 

join your hands, 
With blessings, from the Fairy 

of the Wood, 
On brave Prince Jack and fair 
Red Riding-Hood. 



174 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



TAKING THE 

Scene — A farm house. 

Characters — Mrs. Touchzvood at the 
washtub being quizzed by the census taker. 

CENSUS TAKER— Good morning, 
madam. Is the head of the house at 
home? 

Mrs. Touchwood — Yes, sir, I'm at 
home. 

C. T. — Haven't you a husband? 

Mrs. T. — Yes, sir, but he ain't the head 
of the family, I'd have you to know. 

C. T. — How many persons have you in 
your family? 

Mrs. T. — Why bless me, sir, what's that 



to you? You're mighty inquisitive, I 
think. 

C. T. — I'm the man that takes the census. 

Mrs. T. — If you was a man in your 
senses you wouldn't ask such impertinent 
questions. 

C. T. — Don't be offended, old lady, but 
answer my questions as I ask them. 

Mrs. T. — "Answer a fool according to 
his folly!" — you know what the Scripture 
says. Old lady, indeed! 

C. T. — Beg your pardon, madam ; but I 
don't care about hearing Scripture just at 
this moment. I'm bound to go according 
to law and not according to gospel. 

Mrs. T. — I should think you went neither 
according to law nor gospel. What busi- 
ness is it to you to inquire into folks' 
affairs, Mr. Thingumbob? 

C. T. — The law makes it my business, 
good woman, and if you don't want to ex- 
pose yourself to its penalties, you must 
answer my questions. 

Mrs. T.— Oh, it's the law is it? That 
alters the case. But I should like to know 
what the law has to do with other people's 
household affairs? 

C. T. — Why, Congress made the law, and 



if it don't please you, you must talk to them 
about it. 

Mrs. T.— Talk to a fiddle-stick! Why, 
Congress is a fool, and you're another. 

C. T. — Now, good lady, you're a fine, 
good-looking woman; if you'll give me a 
few civil answers I'll thank you. What I 
wish to know first is, how many are there 
in your family? 

Mrs. T. — Let me see [counting on her 
fingers'] ; there's I and my husband is one — 

C. T. — Two, you mean. 

Mrs. T. — Don't put me out, now, Mr. 
Thinkummy. There's I and my husband 
is one 



C. T. — Are you always one? 

Mrs. T.— What's that to you, I should 
like to know. But I tell you, if you don't 
leave off interrupting me I won't say an- 
other word. 

C. T. — Well, take your own way, and be 
hanged to you. 

Mrs. T. — I will take my own way, and 
no thanks to you. [Again counting her 
fingers.'] There's I and my husband is 
one ; there's John, he's two ; Peter is three, 
Sue and Moll are four, and Thomas is five. 
And then there's Mr. Jenkins and his wife 
and the two children is six; and there's 
Jowler, he's seven. 

C. T.— Jowler! Who's he? 

Mrs. T. — Who's Jowler! Why, who 
should he be but the old house dog? 

C. T. — It's the number of persons I want 
to know. 

Mrs. T. — Very well, Mr. Flippergin, 
ain't Jowler a person? Come here, Jowler, 
and speak for yourself. I'm sure he's as 
personable a dog as there is in the whole 
State. 

C. T. — He's a very clever dog, no doubt. 
But it's the number of human beings I want 
to know. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



175 



Mrs. T. — Human! There ain't a more 
human dog that ever breathed. 

C. T. — Well, but I mean the , two-legged 
kind of beings. 

Mrs. T— Oh, the two-legged, is it? 
Well, then, there's the old rooster, he's 
seven; the fighting-cock is eight, and the 
bantam is nine 

C. T. — Stop, stop, good woman, I don't 
want to know the number of your fowls. 

Mrs. T. — I'm very sorry indeed, I can't 
please you, such a sweet gentleman as you 
are. But didn't you tell me — 'twas the two- 
legged beings 

C. T— True, but I didn't mean the hens. 

Mrs. T. — Oh, now I understand you. 
The old gobbler, he's seven, the hen turkey 
is eight; and if you'll wait a week there'll 
be a parcel of young ones, for the old hen 
turkey is setting on a whole snarl of eggs. 

C. T. — Blast your turkeys ! 

Mrs. T. — Oh, don't now, good Mr. Hip- 
perstitcher, I pray you don't. They're as 
honest turkeys as any in the country. 

C. T. — Don't vex me any more. I'm get- 
ting to be angry. 

Mrs. T.— Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

C. T. [striding about the room in a rage.] 
— Have a care, madam, or I shall fly out of 
my skin. 

Mrs. T. — If you do, I don't know who 
will fly in. 

C. T. — You do all you can to anger me. 
It's the two-legged creatures who talk I 
have reference to. 

Mrs. T. — Oh, now I understand you. 
Well, then, our Poll Parrot makes seven 
and the black gal eight. 

C. T. — I see you will have your own way. 

Mrs. T. — You have just found out, have 
you! You are a smart little man! 

C. T.— Have you mentioned the whole of 
your family? 



Mrs. T. — Yes, that's the whole — except 
the wooden-headed man in front. . 

C. T. — Wooden-headed? 

Mrs. T. — Yes, the schoolmaster what's 
boarding here. 

C. T. — I suppose if he has a wooden head 
he lives without eating, and therefore must 
be a profitable boarder. 

Mrs. T. — Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken 
there. He eats like a leather judgment. 

C. T. — How many servants are there in 
the family? 

Mrs. T. — Servants! Why, there's no 
servants but me and my husband. 

C. T. — What makes you and your hus- 
band servants? 

Mrs. T. — I'm a servant to hard work, 
and he is a servant to rum. He does noth- 
ing all day but guzzle, guzzle, guzzle ; while 
I'm working, and stewing, and sweating 
from morning till night, and from night till 
morning. 

C. T. — How many colored persons have 
you? 

Mrs. T. — There's nobody but Dinah, the 
black girl, Poll Parrot and my daughter 
Sue. 

C. T. — Is your daughter a colored girl? 

Mrs. T. — I guess you'd think so if you 
was to see her. She's always out in the 
sun — and she's tanned up as black as an 
Indian. 

C. T. — How many white males are there 
in your family under ten years of age? 

Mrs. T. — Why, there ain't none now; 
my husband don't carry the mail since he's 
taken to drink so bad. He used to carry 
two, but they wasn't white. 

C. T. — You mistake, good woman; I 
meant male folks, not leather mails. 

Mrs. T. — Let me see; there's none ex- 
cept little Thomas, and Mr. Jenkins' two 
little girls. 



176 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



C. T. — Males, I said, madam, not fe- 
males. 

• Mrs. T. — Well, if you don't like them, 
you may leave them off. 

C. T. — How many white males are there 
between ten and twenty? 

Mrs. T. — Why, there's nobody but John 
and Peter, and John ran away last week. 

C. T. — How many white males are there 
between twenty and thirty? 

Mrs. T. — Let me see — there's the wood- 
en-headed man is one, Mr. Jenkins and his 
wife is two, and the black girl is three. 

C. T. — No more of your nonsense, old 
lady; I'm heartily tired of it. 

Mrs. T— Hoity toity ! Haven't I a right 
to talk as I please in my own house? 

C. T. — You must answer the questions 
as I put them. 

Mrs. T. — "Answer a fool according to 
his folly" — you're right, Mr. Hippogriff. 

C. T. — How many white males are there 
between thirty and forty? 

Mrs. T. — Why, there's nobody but I and 
my husband — and he was forty-one last 
March. 

C. T. — As you count yourself among the 
males, I dare say you wear the breeches. 

Mrs. T.— Well, what if I do, Mr. Im- 
pertinence? Is that anything to you? Mind 
your own business, if you please. 

C. T. — Certainly — I did but speak. How 
many white males are there between forty 
and fifty? 

Mrs. T.— None. 

C. T. — How many between fifty and 
sixty ? 

Mrs. T.— None. 

C. T. — Are there any between this and a 
hundred ? 

Mrs. T. — None except the old gentle- 
man. 

C. T. — What old gentleman? You have 
riot mentioned any before. 



Mrs. T. — Why, grandfather Grayling — I 
thought everybody knew grandfather Gray- 
ling — he's a hundred and two years old 
next August, if he lives so long — and I dare 
say he will, for he's got the dry wilt, and 
they say such folks never dies. 

C. T. — Now give the number of deaf and 
dumb persons. 

Mrs. T. — Why, there is no deaf persons, 
excepting husband, and he ain't so deaf as 
he pretends to be. When anybody axes 
him to take a drink of rum, if it's only in a 
whisper, he can hear quick enough. But if 
I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or 
feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he's as 
deaf as a horse-block. 

C. T. — How many dumb persons? 

Mrs. T. — Dumb ! Why, there's no dumb 
body in the house, except the wooden- 
headed man, and he never speaks unless 
he's spoken to. To be sure, my husband 
wishes I was dumb, but he can't make it 
out. 

C. T. — Are there any manufactures car- 
ried on here ? 

Mrs. T. — None to speak on, except tur- 
nip-sausages and tow cloth. 

C. T. — Turnip-sausages ? 

Mrs. T. — Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there 
anything so wonderful in that? 

C. T. — I never heard of them before. 
What kind of machinery is used in making 
them ? 

Mrs. T. — Nothing but a bread-trough, a 
chopping-knife and a sausage filler. 

C. T. — Are they made of clear turnips? 

Mrs. T. — Now you're terrible inquisitive. 
What would you give to know? 

C. T. — I'll give you the name of being 
the most communicative and pleasant 
woman I've met with for the last half -hour. 

Mrs. T. — Well, now, you're a sweet gen- 
tleman, and I must gratify you. You must 
know we mix with the turnip a little red 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



177 



cloth, just enough to give them a color, so 
they needn't look as if they were made of 
clear fat meat ; then we chop them up well 
together, put in a little sage, summer 
savory, and black pepper; and they make 
as pretty little delicate links as ever was set 
on a gentleman's table ; they fetch the high- 
est price in the market. 

C. T. — Indeed ! Have you a piano in the 
house ? 

Mrs. T.— A piany! What's that? 

C. T. — A musical instrument. 

Mrs. T. — Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down 
at the Corners, has one. You see, Sary 
got all highfalutin about the great Colu- 
shun down to Bosting, and down she went ; 
an' when she came back the old man got 
no rest until she had one of the big square 
music boxes with white teeth — 'spose that's 
what you call a piany. 



C. T. — You seem to know what it is, 
then. 

Mrs. T. — Yes, sir. Have you anything 
more to ax? 

C. T. — Nothing more. Good morning, 
madam. 

Mrs. T. — Stop a moment; can't you 
think of something else? Do now, that's a 
good man. Wouldn't you like to know 
what we're going to have for dinner; or 
how many chickens our old white hen 
hatched at her last brood; or how many — 

C. T. — Nothing more — nothing more. 

Mrs. T. — Here, just look in the cup- 
board, and see how many red ants there 
are in the sugar-bowl; I haven't time to 
count them myself. 

C. T. — Confound your ants and all your 
relations. 

[Exit in bad humor.] 






MR. PINCHEM'S CLERK. 



Scene. — An office with a desk or table on 
which are an inkstand, a pile of ledgers 
and some extra sheets of paper. Mr. 
Pinchem, with gray zvig and zuhiskers 
and spectacles, sits in his office busily en- 
gaged in figuring up his accounts. He 
does not look up from his paper, but 
keeps on figuring while his clerk enters 
and takes a seat near the table in such a 
position as to both face the audience. 

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I — I — 

Mr. Pinchem. Have you got those 
goods off for Kalamazoo? 

Clerk. Yes, sir, they are off. Mr. 
Pinchem, I — 

Mr. P. And about that order for starch ? 

Clerk. That has been attended to, sir. 
Mr. Pinchem — 

Mr. P. And that invoice of tea ? 



right, 



sir. 



Mr. 



Clerk. That's all 
Pinchem, I have — 

Mr. P. And that cargo of sugar? 

Clerk. Taken care of as you directed, 
sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long — 

Mr. P. What about Bush and Bell's con- 
signment ? 

Clerk. Received in good order, sir. 
Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted — 

Mr. P. And that shipment to Buffalo? 

Clerk. All right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I 
have long wanted to speak to you — 

Mr. P. Ah! speak to me? Why, I 
thought you spoke to me fifty times a day. 

Clerk. Yes, sir, I know, but this is a 
private matter. 

Mr. P. Private? Oh! Ah! Wait till I 
see how much we made on that last ten 
thousand pounds of soap — six times four 
are twenty-four; six times two are twelve 



178 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



and two to carry make fourteen ; six times 
nought are nothing and one to carry makes 
one; six times five are thirty, seven times 
four — ah! well go ahead, I'll finish this 
afterwards. 

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I have been with 
you ten long years, — 

Mr. P. Ten, eh ! Long years, eh ! any 
longer than any other years? Go ahead. 

Clerk. And I have always tried to do 
my duty. 

Mr. P. Have, eh ? Go on. 

Clerk. And now I make bold — 

Mr. P. Hold on! What is there bold 
about it? But, never mind, I'll hear you 
out. 

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask — 
ask — I want to ask — 

Mr. P. Well, why don't you ask then? 
I don't see why you don't ask if you want 
to. 

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask you 
for — for — 

Mr. P. You want to ask me for the hand 
of my daughter. Ah ! why didn't you speak 



right out? She's yours, my boy, take her 
and be happy. You might have had her 
two years ago if you had mentioned it. Go 
long, now, I'm busy. Seven times six are 
forty-two, seven times five are thirty-five 
and four are thirty-nine, seven times 
eight — 

Clerk. Mr. Pinchem — 

Mr. P. What! You here yet? Well, 
what is it? 

Clerk. I wanted to ask you for — 

Mr. P. Didn't I give her to you, you 
rascal ! 

Clerk. Yes, but what I wanted to ask 
you for was not the hand of your daughter, 
but a raise of salary. 

Mr. P. Oh! that was it, eh? Well, sir, 
that is an entirely different matter; and it 
requires time for serious thought and 
earnest deliberation. Return to your work. 
I'll think about it, and some time next fall, 
I'll see about giving you a raise of a dollar 
or so a week. Seven times eight are fifty- 
six and three are fifty-nine — 
(Curtain Falls.) 



t£T* t&* t&* 



KINDNESS AND CRUELTY. 



(For a big boy of twelve 

PAUL — Are you the boy who called 
me names the other day? 

Charles — If you are the boy who threw 
stones at a toad, I am the boy who called 
you cruel. 

P. — Then I shall give you a beating. 

C. — I do not see how that would change 
the fact. You would still be cruel. 

P. — Are you not afraid of me? 

C. — I am just about as afraid of you as 
I am of our big rooster when he jumps 
on a fence and crows. 

P. — I am larger and stouter than you 
are. 



and a little boy of eight.) 

C. — So a hawk is larger than a king- 
bird; but the king-bird is not afraid of 
him. 

P. — Why did you call me cruel for ston- 
ing an ugly toad? 

C. — Because it is a cruel act to give need- 
less pain to any living thing. 

P. — Would you not like to have all the 
toads put out of the way? 

C. — By no means. The toad is of use, 
and does us no harm. Four or five toads 
will keep a garden free from bugs, worms 
and flies that would spoil the leaves. A 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



179 



good gardener would rather have you 
strike him than kill a toad. 

P. — I never heard before that a toad 
was of any use. 

C. — Probably all the creatures in the 
world are of use, in some way, though we 
may not yet have found it out. But what 
harm did you ever know a toad to do? 
See how he tries to hop out of your way as 
soon as he hears your step. 

P. — It is true ; I never heard of a toad's 
doing any harm. What is your name? 

C. — My name is Charles Larcom. 

P. — Charles Larcom, I have been in the 
wrong, and you have been in the right. 
Will you shake hands with me? 



C. — Gladly; I'd much rather shake 
hands than fight. 

P. — I was cruel in stoning the toad, and 
you said no more than the truth about me. 

C. — I think we shall be good friends. 
Come and see me; I live in the white 
house by the brook, near the old willow 
tree. 

P.— I know the house. Will you go and 
picK berries with me next Saturday after- 
noon? 

C. — That I will; and my brother would 
like to go, too. 

P. — I'll call for you at three o'clock; 
till then, good-bye. 

C. — Good-bye, Paul Curtis; I'm glad to 
have met you. 



& ,* & 



A PEACH PIE. 



Characters — The Baker, 

A Little Girl. 
(As the Curtain Rises the Baker is Seen 
Arranging His Goods.) 
(Enter Little Girl.) 

GIRL — Do you sell pies? 
Baker — Yes, my little girl. 

Girl — My mamma said you sold pies. 
How much are they? 

Baker — Ten cents apiece. 

Girl — Give me a peach pie. 

Baker — (looking over wares). I am all 
out of peach pies. However, I have some 
nice mince pies. 

Girl — But I want a peach pie. 

Baker — Well, I am all out. 

Girl — My mamma said you kept peach 
pies. 

Baker — Well, so I do, but just now I 
am out of them. 

Girl — I am willing to pay you for one. 

Baker — Yes, I know, but I haven't any. 

Girl — My mamma said if I gave you ten 
cents vou would give me a peach pie. 



Baker — So I would if I had any. 

Girl — Any what? 

Baker — Peach pies. 

Girl — That's what I want. 

Baker — Yes, but I haven't any. I have 
nothing but mince pies left. 

Girl — But I don't want a mince pie. I 
want a peach pie. 

Baker — Well, I haven't any. 

Girl — You sold mamma a peach pie 
yesterday for ten cents. 

Baker — Yes, I had peach pies yesterday. 

Girl — How much do you want for peach 
pies? 

Baker — If I had any to sell, I would let 
you have one for ten cents. 

Girl — I have got ten cents in my hand. 

Baker — I don't doubt it, my little girl. 

Girl — And I want a peach pie. 

Baker — I haven't any peach pies; I'm 
all sold out. Don't you understand? 

Girl — You sold my mamma a peach pie 
yesterday for ten cents. 



180 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Baker — Of course I did. I had some to 
sell yesterday, and if I had any to sell to- 
day, I would let you have it. 

Girl — This is a baker shop, isn't it ? 

Baker— Of course it is. 

Girl — And you sell pies and cakes ? 



Baker — Of course I do. 

Girl — Then I want a peach pie. 

Baker — Little girl, go home. I shall 
never have any more peach pies to sell. 
Do you hear ? Never any more peach pies ! 
(Curtain.) 



T 



<£• g£* c5* 

A GROVE OF HISTORIC TREES 

(Arbor Day.) 
REE planting on Arbor Day, for 



economic purposes in the great West, 
has given to the prairie States many thou- 
sand acres of new forests, and inspired the 
people with a sense of their great value, 
not only for practical purposes, but for 
climatic and meteorological results as well. 
The celebration of Arbor Day by the public 
schools in several of the older States by 
the planting of memorial trees, as origi- 
nated at Cincinnati, in the spring of 1882, 
and generally known as the "Cincinnati 
plan," has done much also to awaken a 
widespread interest in the study of trees; 
and this annual celebration promises to be- 
come as general in the public schools and 
among the people as the observance of May 
Day in England. "Whatever you would 
have appear in the nation's life you must 
introduce in the public schools." Train the 
youth into a love for trees, instruct them in 
the elements of forestry, and the wisdom of 
this old German proverb will be realized. 

First Pupil. 

Scattered here and there over this beau- 
tiful land of ours are many prominent trees 
that have been consecrated by the presence 
of eminent personages, or by some con- 
spicuous event in the history of our coun- 
try. 

Second Pupil. 

Perhaps the best-known tree in American 
history is the "Charter Oak" in Hartford, 



Conn., which was prostrated by a Septem- 
ber gale in 1848, when it measured twenty- 
five feet in circumference. It was estimated 
to be six hundred years old, when the first 
emigrants looked upon it with wonder. 

Sir Edmund Andross was appointed the 
first governor-general of the colony of Con- 
necticut, and arrived at Boston in Decem- 
ber, 1686. He immediately demanded the 
surrender of the charter of Connecticut, and 
it was refused. 

In October, 1687, he went to Hartford 
with a company of soldiers while the as- 
sembly was in session, and demanded an 
immediate surrender of their charter. Sir 
Edmund was received with apparent re- 
spect by the members, and in his presence 
the subject of his demand was calmly de- 
bated until evening. The charter was then 
brought forth and placed upon the table 
around which the members were sitting. 
Andross was about to seize it, when the 
lights were suddenly extinguished. A 
large concourse of people had assembled 
without, and the moment the lights dis- 
appeared they raised a loud huzza, and 
several entered the chamber. Captain 
Wadsworth, of Hartford, seized the 
charter, and, unobserved, carried it off and 
deposited it in the hollow trunk of a large 
oak tree fronting the house of Hon. Samuel 
Wyllys, then one of the magistrates of that 
colony. The candles were relighted, quiet 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



181 



was restored, and Andross eagerly sought 
the coveted parchment. It was gone, and 
none could, or would, reveal its hiding- 
place. Ever after that tree was called the 
"Charter Oak." 

Third Pupil. 

The "Washington Elm" still stands at 
Cambridge, Mass. It is on Garden Street, 
a short distance from the colleges, and is 
a large, well-preserved tree. It was this 
elm that shaded Washington on that July 
3d, 1775, when he took command of the 
American army at Cambridge, and began 
that long public life in which he exhibited 
such brilliant talents, and won for himself 
the deserved title of "Father of his Coun- 
try." 

We have been an independent nation for 
more than a century, but this tree still 
stands, and its massive trunk and wide- 
spreading branches form a fitting emblem 
of the prosperous nation that started out, 
as it were, from beneath its shade; and 
in it are centered fond remembrances of 
our Revolutionary fathers. 

Fourth Pupil. 

In the middle of Eighteenth Street, Chi- 
cago, between Prairie Avenue and the lake, 
there stood until recently a large cotton- 
wood tree ; it was the last of a group which 
marked the spot where the Indian massacre 
of 1812 took place. Fort Dearborn stood 
at the mouth of the Chicago River, about 
one and one-half miles from the clump of 
trees. In August an army of Indians at- 
tacked the fort, and the garrison being 
weak, the commandant offered to surrender 
on condition that the force might withdraw 
without molestation. At nine o'clock on 
August 15th, the party, composed of about 
seventy-five persons, advanced from the 
fort along the Indian trail, which follows 
the lake shore. When the little band had 
reached the cotton-wood tree, a volley was 



showered by the Indians. All were killed 
except twenty-two, who surrendered and 
were spared. To-day an imposing monu- 
ment marks the spot, that takes the place 
of the tree that was blown down. 
Fifth Pupil. 

Who has not heard of the elm at Shak- 
amaxon, under the spreading branches of 
which William Penn made his famous 
treaty with the Indians, which was never 
sworn to, and which stands alone as the 
only treaty made by the whites with the 
Indians which was never broken? For 
more than a century and a quarter this tree 
stood, a grand monument of this most sin- 
cere treaty ever made, and then it was 
blown down, and a monument of marble 
now but poorly marks the spot where it 
stood. 

Sixth Pupil. 

"The Cary Tree," planted by the road- 
side in 1832 by Alice and Phoebe Cary, is 
a large and beautiful sycamore standing on 
the turnpike from College Hill to Mount 
Pleasant, Hamilton County, Ohio. As these 
two sisters were returning from school one 
day they found a small tree in the road, 
and carrying it to the opposite side they 
dug out the earth with sticks, and planted 
it. 

Seventh Pupil. 

It was the custom of our ancestors to 
plant trees in the early settlement of our 
country, and dedicate them to Liberty. 
Many of these "Liberty Trees," con- 
secrated by our forefathers, are still stand- 
ing. "Old Liberty Elm" in Boston was 
planted by a schoolmaster long before the 
Revolutionary War, and dedicated by him 
to the independence of the colonies. 
Around that tree, before the Revolution, 
the citizens of Boston and vicinity used to 
gather and listen to the advocates of our 
country's freedom. Around it, during the 



182 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



war, they met to offer up thanks and sup- 
plications to Almighty God for the success 
of the patriot armies, and after the terrible 
struggle had ended, the people were accus- 
tomed to assemble there year after year, in 
the shadow of that old tree, to celebrate the 
liberty and independence of our country. 
It stood till within a few years, a living 
monument of the patriotism of the people 
of Boston, and when at last it fell, the bells 
in all the churches of the city were tolled, 
and a feeling of sadness spread over the 
entire State. 

Eighth Pupil. 
At the southern line of Fort Mercer, on 
the Delaware River, close by the bank, are 
the remains of the hickory tree which was 
used as a flagstaff during the battle which 
occurred there in autumn of 1777. There 
stood, until 1840, near Charleston, S. C, a 
magnificent magnolia tree, under which 
General Lincoln signed the capitulation of 
that city in 1789. Incredible as it may ap- 
pear, the owner of the land and of the house 
shaded by the tree, wherein he and his 
mother were born, subsequently felled it for 
firewood. At Rhinebeck may still be seen 
an interesting memento of the lamented 
General Montgomery. A day or two before 
he left home to join the army under Schuy- 
ler he was walking on the lawn in the rear 
of his brother-in-law's mansion with the 
owner, and as he came near the house Mont- 
gomery stuck a willow twig in the ground, 
and said, "Let that grow to remember me 
by." It did grow, and is now a willow with 
a trunk at least ten feet in circumference. 
On the banks of the Genesee River stood 
an oak believed to have been a thousand 
years old, called "The Big Tree." Under 
it the Seneca nation of Indians held coun- 
cils ; and it gave the title "Big Tree" to 
one of the eminent chiefs of that nation, at 
the period of our Revolution. It was 



twenty-six feet in circumference. It was 
swept away by a flood in the autumn of 
1857. A pear tree that stood on the corner 
of Thirteenth Street and Third Avenue, in 
New York City, bore fruit until i860, when 
it perished. It was planted in his garden 
by Peter Stuyvesant, the last Dutch gover- 
nor of New Netherlands (now New York), 
in 1667. 

Ninth Pupil. 

Other trees of historic interest are the 
ash trees planted by General Washington 
at Mount Vernon. These trees form a 
beautiful row, which is the admiration of 
all who visit the home of the "Father of 
his Country." 

The weeping willow over the grave of 
Cotton Mather, in Copp's burying-ground, 
was taken from a tree that shaded the grave 
of Napoleon at St. Helena. Copp's bury- 
ing-ground is so near Bunker Hill battle- 
field that a number of gravestones can be 
seen to-day which were pierced through by 
bullets fired by British soldiers in that 
battle. 

Tenth Pupil. 

But besides historical trees there are 
many others that attract our attention from 
their great size. Among these are the won- 
derful trees of California. They are about 
five hundred in number, ninety-five being 
of enormous size. There is one fallen mon- 
ster, which must have stood four hundred 
and fifty feet in the air, and had a diameter 
of forty feet. Another engaged the efforts 
of five men for twenty-five days in cutting, 
and on the level surface of the stump thirty- 
two dancers find ample room. "Old Go- 
liath" shows the marks of a fire, that, ac- 
cording to surrounding trees untouched, 
must have raged a thousand years ago. 
The diameter of the largest is thirty-three 
feet ; the circumference of the largest, five 
feet above the ground, sixty-one feet. This 



MODE EX DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



183 



is tiie only one more than sixty feet in cir- 
cumference. 

So much larger are those immense trees 
than those we ordinarily see, that a com- 
parison is about the only way in which we 
can correctly measure them. Shortly after 
they were discovered, the hollow trunk 
of one of them was forwarded to New 
Y ork, where it was converted into a grocery 
store. 

In one of these groups of trees a stage- 
road has been cut under the trunk through 
the roots, and immense coaches, drawn by 
six horses, pass directly under the old giant. 
Eleventh Pupil. 

I will tell you how George P. Morris 
came to write the poem, "Woodman, Spare 
That Tree." Mr. Morris, in a letter to a 
friend, dated New York, February i, 1837, 
gave in substance the following account : 

"Riding out of town a few days after, 
in company with a friend, an old gentle- 
man, he invited me to turn down a little 
romantic woodland pass, not far from 
Bloomingdale. 

" 'Your object?' inquired I. 'Merely to 
look once more at an old tree planted by 
my grandfather long before I was born, 
under which I used to play when a boy, 
and where my sisters played with me. 
There I often listened to the good advice of 
my parents. Father, mother, sisters — all 
are gone ; nothing but the old tree remains/ 
And a paleness overspread his fine counte- 



nance and tears came to his eyes. After 
a moment's pause, he added: 'Don't think 
me foolish. I don't know how it is ; I 
never ride out but I turn down this lane 
to look at that old tree. I have a thousand 
recollections about it, and I always greet 
it as a familiar and well-remembered 
friend.' These words were scarcely uttered 
when the old gentleman cried out There it 
is !' Near the tree stood a man with his 
coat oft, sharpening an axe. 'You're not 
going to cut that tree down, surely?' 'Yes, 
but I am though,' said the woodman. 
'What for?' inquired the old gentleman, 
with choked emotion. 'What for? I like 
that ! Well, I will tell you. I Want the tree 
for fire- wood.' 'What is the tree worth to 
you for firewood?' 'Why, when down, 
about ten dollars.' 'Suppose I should give 
you that sum,' said the old gentleman, 
'would you let it stand?' 'Yes.' 'You are 
sure of that ?' 'Positive !' 'Then give me a 
bond to that effect.' We went into the little 
cottage in which my companion was born, 
but which is now occupied by the wood- 
man. I drew up the bond. It was signed 
and the money paid over. As we left, the 
young girl, the daughter of the woodman, 
assured us that while she lived the tree 
should not be cut. These circumstances 
made a strong impression on my mind, and 
furnished me with the materials for the 



c<5* $*?* ?^* 



BACKBITERS BITTEN. 

A Dialogue for Four Girls. 



Characters. 

Miss Marvel, Miss Gad, Miss Slander, 

Miss Upham. 

MISS MARVEL. Who would have 
thought it, Miss Slander? 



Miss Gad. You don't say so, Miss Slan- 
der! 

Miss Slander. Oh, but it is quite true. 
It must be. Besides, my brother William 
heard it at the barber-shop. 



184 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Miss M. Well, now, I always had my 
suspicions; there was always a something 
— a what-do-you-call-it sort of a look about 
the Uphams that I never liked. 

Miss S. They say it is all over town — ■ 
at least brother William says it must be. 
But, whether or no, that's the fact. John 
Upham's store was shut up this morning. 

Miss G. Well, well, it is no more than 
I always said it would come to. 

Miss S. They certainly always lived 
above their station. As my brother William 
often said to me, "Nancy," says he, "mark 
my words ; for all that them Uphams hold 
up their noses like conceited peacocks, as 
they are, pride will have a fall," says he, 
"pride will have a fall !" 

Miss M. And such goings-on, Miss Slan- 
der, to be sure — such goings-on! Parties, 
parties, parties, from Monday till Saturday 
— the best joint at the butcher's, the nicest 
loaf at the baker's, always bespoke for the 
Uphams. Well, they must be content now 
with poor people's fare ! 

Miss S. If they can get even that! for 
my brother William says they will be sold 
out and out, — down to the baby's go-cart. 
Dear me, dear me ! 

Miss G. Only think of it. How different 
it was this time last year, Miss Slander, — 
Miss Upham with her new velvet dress, the 
finest Genoa, Mr. Upham with his new 
phaeton, Master Upham with his new 
watch, and little Emma Upham with her 
new fancy hat ! 

Miss M. But everybody could see what 
was coming. It could not go on so forever. 
That's what I said. But Upham was always 
such a proud man. 

Miss S. Never would take anybody's 
advice but his own — there! it was no later 
than Wednesday week, when my brother 
William civilly asked him, in the most 
neighborly way in the world, if he wanted a 



little conversation . with a friend about his 
affairs, as they appeared to be going back- 
ward; and what do you think he said? 
"William," said he, "you and your sister 
Nancy go chattering about like a couple of 
human magpies, only the bird's instinct is 
better than your reason." That's just what 
he said, the vile brute ! 

Miss M. Brute, indeed, Miss Slander; 
you may well say that. Bird's instinct, for- 
sooth ! 

Miss G. Set him up to talk reason ! Had 
he reason enough to keep himself out of the 
constable's hands? 

Miss M. I should not be surprised, Miss 
Slander, if he were to take to drinking. 

Miss S. And, for that matter, my dear, 
Thompson told Green, who told Lilly, who 
told our Becky, who told William, that 
Upham was seen coming out of Tim 
Smith's saloon this very morning. 

Miss G. Drunk, of course. 

Miss S. Well, I don't know, exactly ; but 
I think it is much more likely that he was 
drunk than that he was sober. 

Miss M. Well, well, 'tis poor Miss Up- 
ham that I pity; I'm sure I sha'n't have a 
wink of sleep all this blessed night for 
thinking of her. 

Miss G. Poor girl ! I'm sure I feel for 
her. Not that she was ever much better 
than he. They do say — but I don't know of 
my own knowledge, and I'm the last person 
in the world to slander anybody behind their 
back — but they do say that, before they 
came here, there were reports, you know, 
insinuations, stories like, though I don't 
exactly know the rights of it, but they do 
say something about Miss Upham's being 
guilty of stealing a nice gold watch! But, 
I dare say, it is all nonsense; only, of 
course, there are some people, you know, 
that will talk. 

Miss M. There, now! who would have 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



185 



thought it ? Did you ever ? But there was 
always something very sly about Miss Up- 
ham — I've seen it often. 

Miss G. What I hope is, that little 
Emma won't take after her aunt — poor 
thing ! 

Miss S. Oh, as for that, bless you, like 
aunt like niece — but I say nothing, not I. 
No, no! nobody ever heard Nancy Slander 
go beyond the line in that way. Alum is 
my word, — mum, mum ! What I say is, that 
people ought to keep people's tongues be- 
tween people's teeth ; that's all. Emma Up- 
ham ! — ha, ha, bless you ! 

Miss M. Hush, hush, if here is not Miss 
Upham herself. 

Enter Miss Upham. 

Miss G. My dear Miss Upham, I am 
very sorry, indeed. 

Miss M. I could almost shed tears for 
you, Miss Upham. 

Miss S. But, my dear Miss Upham, 
there is one consolation for you — you are 
not without a friend in the hour of mis- 
fortune, you know that. 

Miss U. I must beg you to explain your- 
selves, ladies. 

Miss S. Well, Miss Upham, I do not 
think you have any reason nozv to put on 
those proud airs. 

Miss G. It is hardly worth while to keep 
a secret that is known all over the town. 

Miss S. You would do better to remem- 
ber that pride will have a fall, Miss' Up- 
ham, pride will have a fall ! 

Miss U. Well, ladies, I must ask you 
once more to explain yourselves. 

Miss M. Well, Miss Upham, does not 
your brother's store look very different to- 
day from what it did yesterday? 

Miss S. And did not my brother Wil- 



liam find, this morning, the door of your 
brother's store locked? 

Miss G. And would not some people get 
some very queer answers if they were to 
ask you, Miss Upham, why your brother's 
store was shut up this morning? 

Miss U. Well, I believe it is a very com- 
mon thing for merchants to take an account 
of stock at certain seasons of the year; at 
least, that is the reason why my brother's 
store was not open quite as early as usual, 
this morning. He is taking an account of 
stock. 

Miss M. Taking an account of stock ? 

Miss U. Yes, Miss Marvel. 

Miss G. And that is the reason why the 
door of your brother's store was shut this 
morning? 

Miss U. Yes, Miss Gad. 

Miss S. And you are not to be sold out 
and out? 

Miss U. Not that I know of, Miss 
Slander. 

Miss M. I wish you a very good even- 
ing, Miss Upham. 

Miss U. Good evening, Miss Marvel. 

[Exit Miss M. 

Miss G. I hope no offense given, Miss 
Upham ? 

Miss U. Not in the least, Miss Gad. 

[Exit Miss G. 

Miss S. Give my love to your sweet 
niece, Emma, Miss Upham. 

Miss U. With great pleasure, Miss 
Slander. [Exit Miss S. 

There go Marvel, Gad, and Slander ; how 
full of spite and mischief they are ! May I 
take warning from them, and keep alto- 
gether from gossiping and misrepresenta- 
tion. 



186 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



ON TIME 

Copyright, 1900, by the Lyceum Publi 
ROBERT C. 
Characters. 
Jerry Earley, who fearing to be late, is 
just in time. 

Claude Latterly, who, intending to be 
early, is a little behind time. 

Mr. Ferment, who effervesces early and 
late, but comes to time. 

Katharine, his daughter, who de- 
termines that Earley must be in time. 

Mrs. Campbell, the housekeeper, who 
early makes a mistake, but rectifies it in 
time. 

Suggestions as to Costumes. — Earley, ragged 
coat, afterward frock coat, with fashionable 
dress. Latterly, ragged coat, clothing disar- 
ranged, hat smashed. Ferment, old-fashioned 
clothes, bald wig, spectacles. Katharine, white 
gown and ribbons. Mrs. Campbell, black silk 
dress, cap, spectacles. 

Scene — Parlor in Ferment's house; en- 
trances, right and left; Mrs. Campbell 
discovered as curtain rises. 

MISS CAMPBELL {with grip-sack). 
Of all the impudence I ever saw ! Mr. 
Latterly sends his grip by a boy, so as not 
to lose time. I'd time him if I had anything 
to do with him. {Shakes grip, then throws 
it on floor.) 

Enter Ferment, left. 

Ferment. What's all this uproar, Mrs. 
Campbell? What is that {pointing to grip) ? 

Mrs. C. Mr. Latterly's grip, left by a 
boy, who fairly threw it at me and rushed 
off without a word, except to say that he 
must see a fight. 

Ferment. Latterly's grip, eh? Then 
Latterly is not far off. Good ! Would you 
mind taking the grip to his room? It has 
his v/edding coat in it, I suppose. 

Mrs. C. I'd like to have a word with you, 
Mr. Ferment. 



-a farce. 

shing Company. (Used by Permission.) 
V. MEYERS. 

Ferment. Now, Mrs. Campbell, I jiave 
no time for words. I am excited. 

Mrs. C. I've had charge of Katharine 
ever since her mother died, fifteen years 
ago 

Ferment. You wanted a word with me ? 
This sounds as though you wanted the 
whole dictionary ! 

Mrs. C. A dictionary wouldn't hold all 
the words I should like to say. 

Ferment. Don't say 'em. Take one let- 
ter at a time. 

Mrs. C. I will. The letter K, Kathar- 
ine. So she is to be married this morning ! 
I am sorry to hear it. 

Ferment. Everybody has a right to be 
sorry. 

Mrs. C. But she hasn't a right to be 
sorry this way. Mr. Latterly is not her 
choice. 

Ferment. He is a choice young man — 
he is my choice. 

Mrs. C. A girl has a right to her own 
choice. 

Ferment. Meaning Mr. Jerry Earley? 

Mrs. C. She says he is a splendid young 
man. 

Ferment. Katharine shall marry the 
man I pick out for her. It is my theory that 
a girl should be guided by her father. Will 
you kindly take that grip to Mr. Latterly's 
room? 

Mrs. C. {kicking grip out.) Very well. 

[Exit, right. 

Ferment. Shall the daughter of Henry 
Ferment, author of that book, "The Degen- 
eracy of the Young," marry a man simply 
because he is her choice? Never! The 
young should be guided by the old, that's 
my theory. Why, I've never seen this man 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



IS' 



Earley. No, she marries Latterly as soon 
as he arrives. It was a stroke of genius to 
nab the minister and lock him in the study, 
so that the wedding should take place as 
soon as Latterly arrives — for I distrust 
Katharine, she might give me the slip. 

Enter Katharine, left. 

Katharine. Father ! 

Ferment. What is it, my daughter? 

Katharine. I have followed you to tell 
you I will not marry Mr. Latterly. Simply 
because he is the son of your old school 
friend cannot make me like him. 

Ferment. You've never seen him. 

Katharine. Neither have you. He 
writes you that he admires your book, and 
on the strength of that you determine that 
he is fit to be your son-in-law. 

Ferment. I am upholding the theory of 
that book — the young should be guided by 
the old. Mr. Earley comes too late if, as 
you say, he writes you that he comes this 
morning to ask me for your hand. Every- 
body has a right to be happy, and so have 
I. My theory shall be upheld. [Exit, left. 

Katharine. I marry a man I do not 
know ! Never ! Oh, if Jerry only comes in 
time ! If he will only make haste ! 

Mrs. C. {entering). Mr. Latterly's wed- 
ding coat has arrived. I've just kicked it 
into his room. Don't you dare to marry 
that man ! 

Katharine. But what shall I do if Mr. 
Earley does not arrive in time? 

Mrs. C. He's not fit to be called Earley 
if he is late. But I am sorry your father 
has never seen him. A man likes to marry 
his daughter to a man he knows. 

Katharine. He doesn't know Mr. Lat- 
terly, except through his father. 

Mrs. C. That's something, though your 
Aunt Anna writes that he is a mere fortune- 
hunter, and you say Mr. Earley is not that. 



Katharine. Indeed, no ! If father only 
knew him! 

Mrs. C. Your father refuses to know 
any young man. 

Katharine. Consequently I had to meet 
Mr. Earley at Aunt Anna's when I visited 
there last winter. 

Mrs. C. I think your father is scandal- 
ous. But you needn't marry if you don't 
want to. 

Katharine. And the minister is locked 
up in the study, and Mr. Latterly's coat in 
his room. Oh, if Jerry would only come 
(going to windozv) ! 

Mrs. C. I've taken care of you for fif- 
teen years, and you shall not be made mis- 
erable now. Mr. Latterly has never seen 
you. Suppose I waylay him and pretend 
I am you ? That ought to make him hesitate. 

Katharine. If he is what Aunt Anna 
says he is, he will hesitate at nothing. 

Mrs. C. But I am old enough to be his 
mother. 

Katharine. But father is rich enough 
to be his father-in-law. Oh, if Jerry would 
only come ! 

Ferment (entering). Mrs. Campbell, 
will you please leave us? 

Mrs. C. Very well (shaking fist back at 
him)! [Exit, right. 

Ferment. I won't have any more non- 
sense, Katharine. You've got to make Lat- 
terly a happy man — everybody has a right 
to be happy. Let us reason together? 

Katharine. Reason ! You don't know 
what reason is. Booh ! [Exit, right. 

Ferment. She said "Booh!" to me. 
This is degeneracy in the young with a ven- 
geance. A girl to say Booh to her father. 
I thought she couldn't say Booh to a goose. 
Now she shall marry Latterly. I am an up- 
right man (pitching over chair). Oh, oh! 
(Gets up, rubbing his leg, as pounding is 
heard.) That's the minister. He don't get 



188 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



out till Latterly gets in. That's what he 
gets for coming here to tell me my book is 
all wrong. But I must go and pacify him. 

[Exit, right. 

Enter Earley, left; coat is ragged, collar 
and necktie hanging. 

Earley. I am in time. That's all I 
want, time, and the last tap I gave Latterly 
he didn't come to time. Now to find Kath- 
arine and run off with her. 

Katharine (entering, right, screaming). 
Oh, Jerry! What is the matter? 

Earley. What do you see is the matter ? 

Katharine. Your condition. Such dis- 
arrangement ! 

Earley. The disarrangement arranged 
itself. I've had a difference of opinion with 
Mr. Latterly. 

Katharine. Mr. Latterly! What has 
he done to you? 

Earley. You'd better ask what I've done 
to him. 

Katharine. What have you done ? 

Earley. I've done him, after he tried to 
do me. 

Katharine (Hying to him). He has in- 
jured you? 

Earley. Wait till you see him. 

Katharine. Tell me about it, tell me ! 

Earley. We came here in the same car. 
I recognized him by your Aunt Annie's de- 
scription of him. He didn't know me. At 
the station he was in such a hurry that he 
scourged me. I am not the man to be 
scourged. I pushed him. At that he struck 
me. I threw my grip to the platform. He 
threw his, and yelled to a boy to carry it 
here. But the boy took mine in mistake. 
Then Latterly grappled with me. I left him 
getting plastered up by the trainmen. That 
gives us a few minutes start of him. Now 
come, we'll get out of this, come ! 

Katharine. Oh, Jerry, the minister is 
here to marry me to Mr. Latterly. 



Earley. Then we have no time to lose. 
Come! 

Noise heard outside; Ferment calling, 
"Ka th arin e ! Ka th arin e !" 

Katharine. There is papa. He must 
not find me here. He does not know you. 
Pretend you are somebody else. Tell him 
you are a book-agent. I will see you in a 
few minutes. [Exit, left, running. 

Earley. Pretend I am a book-agent ! Do 
I look like one? (Ferment, calling, "Kath- 
arine! Katharine!") No, I am not the man 
to pretend. I meet him as myself. 

Ferment (entering, right, calling; then 
seeing Earley). W 7 hat, here! You are in 
time. My dear boy, I am delighted to see 
you (shaking Earley violently by the hand). 

Earley. Delighted to see me ! Sir — sir 
—I 

Ferment. You are in time ; in fact, you 
are early. 

Earley. I certainly am Earley. 

Ferment. I feared you would be late. 

Earley. I — I do not understand. 

Ferment. I've captured a minister. He 
came to argue with me about my book. I 
simply locked him in my study. My theory 
shall be upheld. 

Earley. But listen to me, sir. I am here 
to see your daughter. 

Ferment. And she will see you. 

Earley. I do not understand. 

Ferment. My theory shall be upheld. 

Earley (angrily). I have no objection 
to your upholding anything, except an ob- 
jectionable aspirant to Katharine's hand — 

Ferment. Who shall be — ha, ha! held 
up if he appears ? 

Earley. Oh, I've attended to that. 

Ferment. You ! What do you mean ? 

Earley. Sir, I must tell you the truth. 

Ferment. You'd better not tell me any- 
thing else. 

Earley (angrily). Give me a chance. 




Photo by Byron, N. Y. 



A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 




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MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



191 



Ferment. My dear boy, I am anxious to 
make you happy and uphold my theory at 
the same time. Go on ! 

Earley. You see my condition ? 

Ferment. Now I notice you. I do think 
you are a trifle out of order. 

Earley. I met that rival of mine. He 
struck me. I left him with the trainmen — 
getting patched up. 

Ferment. What ! He dares to come here 
and brave me. {Calling.) Mrs. Campbell ! 
Mrs. Campbell ! 

Mrs. C. {entering, right.) I am here, I 
am here ! 

Ferment. Show the gentleman his 
room. I will go after Katharine. My theory 
shall be upheld. [Exit, right. 

Mrs. C. ( grasping Earley 1 's arm. ) Aren't 
you ashamed to marry Katharine like this ! 

Earley. I don't care how I marry her, 
so I do marry her. 

Mrs. C. And she loving another man ! 

Earley {astounded) . Explain yourself. 

Mrs. C. She's dead in love with another 
man. 

Earley {grasping her arm). What do 
you mean ? Tell me instantly. 

Mrs. C. {freeing herself). She told me 
so ; she has always said so. She only takes 
you because you force her. 

Earley. Force her ? I give her up ! In 
love with another man ! Good-by {going; 
then returning and shaking her) . Woman, 
I must know all of this. Tell me ! 

Mrs. C. You know very well the minis- 
ter is here to marry you to Katharine, and 
she loving poor Mr. Earley. 

Earley {releasing her; his hand to his 
head). My brain reels! {Aside.) I see. 
The light is beginning to come. There is 
yet hope. {Aloud.) Show me to my room, 
I must rest. 

Mrs. C. Nothing will stop your mar- 
riage? 



Earley. Nothing! My room — I am 
dizzy. 

Mrs. C. {pointing, left.) Unhappy man, 
there is your room. {Earley goes in, and 
she turns the key in lock.) Mr. Ferment 
locked up the minister, and I lock up the 
bridegroom. Let us see if he will be mar- 
ried before Mr. Earley gets here. 

Katharine {entering, right). Where is 
he, where is he? 

Mrs. C. Mr. Latterly is in there with his 
wedding-coat. 

Katharine. Surely he has not come ? 

Mrs. C. Surely he has. 

Katharine. And where is Mr. Earley? 

Mrs. C. I haven't the slightest idea. 

Katharine {wringing hands). Oh, to 
treat me thus — to treat me thus ! 

Mrs. C. Never you mind, I've locked 
Mr. Latterly in, and here's the key. 

Katharine. The key! Give it to me 
{taking it and going to zvindow and throw- 
ing it out). Now let father do his worst. 
But Jerry to treat me thus. 

[Exit right, weeping. 

Mrs. C. {dashing off her cap). She shall 
never marry Latterly. {Pounding heard at 
door.) You may pound, but you won't get 
out. {Ferment outside, calling, "Katha- 
rine! Katharine /") Now for it. {Claps on 
cap.) 

Ferment {entering, left). Where is 
Katharine? I am in a hurry. {Pounding 
heard.) Who is that? 

Mrs. C. That is Mr. Latterly. He is in 
that room. I have locked him in and the key 
is thrown away. He shall not marry Katha- 
rine. 

Ferment. Locked him in! You vixen! 
Go ! Leave me — leave the house ! 

Mrs. C. I will — with Katharine. 

[Exit, right. 

Ferment. Locked him in! {At door, 
left.) Break the lock! Burst open the 



192 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



door! (Door Hies open; Earley enters in 
wedding-coat.) Now, my lad, I'll see who 
is master here. Come to the minister. 

Earley. I will. First, let me explain. 

Ferment. I will listen to no explana- 
tions. My theory shall be upheld. 

Katharine (entering, right, not observ- 
ing Earley). Father, I will never permit 
this outrage ! 

Ferment. My theory shall be upheld ! 

Earley (coming forward). Mr. Fer- 
ment, listen to me. 

Katharine (screaming with delight). 
Who is this ? 

Ferment. Your husband that is to be. 
Go ! To the minister, go ! 

Katharine. Father, there is a mistake. 

Ferment. Go, I tell you ! Take her, my 
boy ! Go ! 

Earley (with warning glance at Katha- 
rine). But, sir 

Ferment (angrily). You object? 

Earley (in mock obeisance). By no 
means ; but 

Ferment. Go ! That scoundrel may be 
here at any minute and make trouble. Not 
a word. To the minister, go (pushing them 
off, left) ! Now let the villain come ! 

Mrs. C. (entering, right, excitedly, in 
bonnet and coat, with boxes). I am going. 
I am going first. I want to tell you my 
opinion of you. 

Ferment. I don't wish to hear it. 

Mrs. C. You are a bear. 

Ferment. Go ! 

Mrs. C. You are a donkey. 

Ferment. Go ! 

Mrs. C. You are a wolf in sheep's cloth- 
ing. 

Ferment. I don't care if I am a whole 
zoological garden. Go ! My theory shall 
be upheld. 

Mrs. C. (dropping boxes and running to 



him). I'll uphold your theory (boxing his 
ears, he crying: You vixen, etc.) ! 

Enter, Latterly, left, in ragged coat, his 
face plastered. 

Ferment. (breaking away). How? 
What? Who are you? 

Mrs. C. (running to Latterly). Oh, you 
poor, dear creature ! You are too late. 

Ferment. You may be Earley (laugh- 
ing) — but too late. 

Latterly. Sir, I have been maltreated 
by a villain. 

Mrs. C. Oh, why didn't you kill him ! 

Latterly. Mr. Ferment, I am here ; and 
where is she? 

Mrs. C. (weeping). She is being mar- 
ried. 

Latterly. Married ? 

Ferment (rubbing his hands). Married! 

Latterly. But she is to be married to 



me. 



Ferment. As I said before, you may be 
Farley, but you are too late. 

Latterly. Sir, I will have damages. 

Ferment. It looks to me as though you 
have had damages enough. 

Latterly. You make a jest of me? I 
will claim damages for breach of promise. 

Ferment. Claim what you please; you 
— you fortune-hunter. 

Latterly. You insult me. Because 
your sister calls me a fortune-hunter, you 
insist upon it? I will have damages. I 
know your means. I will claim damages 
or your daughter. I've never seen her, and 
damages will do as well. 

Mrs. C. Oh, sir, how can you ! 

Latterly. I've been imposed upon. But 
the money will do — I'll claim damages. I'll 
enter proceedings at once. I don't want the 
girl, but I will have the money, as sure as 
my name is Latterly. 

Ferment. Latterly? 

Mrs. C. Latterly (sinking into chair) ! 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



193 



Latterly (to Ferment). You know 
very well that I am Claude Latterly; and 
you have brought me here to make a fool 
of me. 

Ferment. And you'd rather have dam- 
ages than my daughter. 

Latterly. I don't want your daughter. 
You've made a fool of me. I want dam- 
ages. 

Ferment. Then my sister's opinion of 
you was correct ; you are a fortune-hunter ? 

Latterly. I want damages. 

Ferment. Then you shall have damages 
(running to him, scuffling him off, left; 
noise, as of some one falling down stairs). 

Mrs. C. (rising). I see it, I see it (clap- 
ping her hands) ! Katharine is being mar- 
ried to Mr. Earley. I see it, I see it ! 

Ferment (returning and rolling up his 
sleeves). I've settled him, I've settled him! 
Rather have the money, would he? He's 
running for the train as fast as his legs will 
carry him. My theory shall be — oh, where 
is my theory? 

Mrs. C. (clapping him on the back). I 
see it, I see it ! 

Ferment. Mrs. Campbell, I don't know 
what you see, but / see that I have made a 
fool of myself. 

Mrs. C. No, you haven't; you've made 
a happy woman of your daughter. 

Ferment. But my dignity! They'll 
think I've been fooled. 

Mrs. C. Pretend — pretend you knew all 
the time — pretend you did it all to try Kath- 
arine's attachment for Mr. Earley. I'll help 
you out. 

Ferment. You will? You're an angel, 
if you are a widow. And you'll never tell ? 

Mrs. C. Never. 

Ferment. Never expose me? 

Mrs. C. Never. Hush ! Here they are. 
Enter, Katharine and Earley, arm in arm. 



Katharine (running to him). Father, 
I must confess. 

Earley. Mr. Ferment, you refused to 
hear my explanation. 

Ferment (bombastically) . My lad, my 
daughter, be happy. I know all. 

Katharine. Why, father! 

Ferment. I tell you I know all. Hasn't 
a father who writes about the degeneracy 
of the young the right to test the affection 
of his daughter for the man she professes to 
love? 

Earley. You knew all along who I was ? 

Mrs. C. Of course he did. 

Earley. But my grip came here instead 
of Mr. Latterly's. 

Ferment. I wish no explanations, I tell 
you. 

Katharine. Oh, father, and I thought 
you were determined to marry me to Mr. 
Latterly ! 

Ferment. A fortune-hunter. He'll not 
come to-day; I've a theory he will not. 
And now — I am giddy. (Sits in chair.) 

Mrs. C. (fanning him). Don't faint. 
Revive yourself. 

Ferment (jumping up). Revive myself ! 
I will, Mrs. Campbell; you've been my 
daughter's companion for fifteen years, be 
her father's companion for the rest of his 
life. I'll revive myself — be my wife. 

Mrs. C. Oh, sir (resting her head on his 
shoulder) ! 

Katharine. Father, may you be happy. 

Earley. Bless you, my children. 

Ferment. And now let's all be happy 
together. It is one of my theories that — 

Mrs. C. That everybody is an idiot who 
does not find the way to happiness. 

Ferment. And I'll uphold that theory. 
It may be a little late, but it is — 

Katharine. Earley (pointing to Ear- 
ley). 



194 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Earley. 
Time." 



Not too late. In fact, it is "On 



Earley. Katharine. Mrs. Campbell. 

Ferment. 

CURTAIN. 



%2* «<5* t&fr 

THE HARVEST QUEEN AND HER MAIDENS. 

SARAH M. WYMAN. 



Characters. 
The Queen, Marion, Julia, Lulu, 
Helen, Maria, Lilian, Bertha, 
Blanche, Nettie, Alice. 
The real names of the children can be sub- 
stituted if desired. 
Scene — A platform with raised seat for the 
Queen at right; the maidens gracefully 
grouped at left. 

WHAT your gleanings, darling maid- 
ens, 
Through the precious Summer time? 
From the year's maturer ripenings, 
What your offering for my shrine ? 

In the golden-dotted meadows, 

In the fields of yellow grain, 
Through the orchard, crimson-fruited, 

By the streamlet's low refrain, — 

You have found great nature's treasures 
Sparkling with the gems they wear; 

Have you brought them, sweet-voiced 
maidens, 
That your Queen the gifts may bear ? 

Marion — 

This sheaf of wheat 
The loyal Marion lays 

Low at your feet ; 
Emblem of pleasant days, 
Found in the sunny ways 

Where maidens meet. 

Julia — 

For thee these grapes, from clinging vine ; 

So clings my heart, dear Queen, to thine. 



Lulu — 

Melons, juicy and red, — 

Melons, yellow as gold, — 
Melons, from emerald bed, — 
Melons, I scarce can hold ! 
Oh, take them, my Queen, and the homage, 

too, 
Of your loving subject, the little Lu ! 

Helen — 

Delaware peaches, soft as the cheek is 

Of baby Grace; 
No nicer nor rarer, no sweeter nor fairer, 

In any place. 

Maria — 

Oh, the fields of growing corn, 

With tassels soft as silk ; 
And little tender baby ears, 

At first as white as milk. 

And then, the white is changed to gold, 
The husks grow tough and strong; 

September brings the harvesters, 
And wakes their merry song. 

Lilian — 

These little ferns within a deep alcove 

So deftly grew; 
I seized the pretty, feathery things, 
Soft as blue bird's tender wings, 
And brought to you. 

Oh, let the graceful, fragile forms 

Around the altar lie, 
And grace the heavier gifts it bears, 
The stiffer lines its contour wears, 

Until they die. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



195 



Bertha— 

Some Autumn leaves for thee I've gathered 

From maples dashed with gold; 
From sumacs, flaming by the way-side, 
And oaks centuries old. 

Blanche — 

These asters, with their fringe of blue, 

I picked, dear Queen, and brought to you. 

Nettie — 

And the gentian, 
"Whose sweet and quiet eye 
Looks through its fringes to the sky." 

Queen — 

Oh, thank you, maidens, for the gifts 

My heaped-up xaltar shows ; 
Such love the true heart ever feels, 

But other, never knows. 

Alice — 

Great Queen, myself I give to thee ; 
All that I am, or hope to be ; — 
My love, my trust, my life, my all, 
Attentive to thy slightest call. 

Within an attic's low retreat, 
Where grateful sunbeams never meet, 
Weary and sick, lame, and in pain, 
I heard on the roof the Summer rain, 
And longed to lay my burdens by, 
And in the bliss of rest to lie, 
Till, rain-refreshed, the grain and flowers 
Should brighten in the sunny hours, 
And I could gather them for thee. 
And fruits from many a loaded tree. 



But no ! for me 'twas never meant ; 

Alas ! I groped in discontent, 

'Till suddenly a silver light 

Around my couch, one stormy night, 

Seemed all the dreary room to fill ; 

A voice spake softly: "Peace, be still !" 

Subdued, I lay in wondering rest; 
New thoughts arose within my breast. 
Content, no more the fields to roam, 
I pledged to make for thee a home 
Within my heart; to consecrate 
My life to thee, and humbly wait 
Thy will ; to walk when thou shouldst lead, 
And trust in every hour of need. 

Queen — 

Ah, sweet maiden, you have chosen 

Wisest, truest, fondest, best; 
Other gifts will crown my altar, 

Yours within my heart shall rest. 

Such living trust, — such devotion, 

Jesus, Lord, the Crucified, 
Asks of all His loving children, 

That in Him they may abide. 

Oh, my Alice! in your sufferings, 
Christ's the light that shone around ; 

When yourself you freely offered 
'Twas this Jesus that you found. 

Maidens, come, and give your service, 

All your lives can ever be, 
To the glorified Redeemer — 

Just these little gifts to me. 
CURTAIN. 



t£& t£pl <£& 

A WOMAN'S RIGHTS MEETING. 



Characters. 
Miss Belinda Inez Snicks, an old maid. 
Mrs. Betsy Swagglesnock, a widow. 
Miss Mary Ann Higgins, an old maid. 
Florabel Snipper, a young lady. 



Scene — A schoolroom, or an apartment in 
a house. 

MISS SNICKS (rising)-. Feller-citi- 
zens — that is to say, my country- 
women: This is an important and un- 



106 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



conquerable occasion, — an occasion fully — 
that is to say — an epoch in the history of 
woman, — an epoch big and overflowin' with 
unexpoundable and paregorical events, 
whose oleaginous paradigms shall rise up in 
the dim future, which is fast recedin' into 
atmospherical and oblivious phantasma- 
goria of the past, to lead us on over the 
precipitous and inflexible profundity of the 
mountainous and ever-rising periods, which 
shall grow more and more inflammable and 
multitudinous until the rising whirlpools 
shall sweep the malestrom from Dan — that 
is, I mean Daniel — to that other place which 
is derived from the Latin word big sheep, 
and shall go on in a roarin', unaccountable, 
automatical, jimmy-twistical 

Florabel. Run for a dictionary ! 

Miss Higgins. Run for a doctor ! 

Miss Snicks. Order, until I have co- 
incided. 

Mrs. Swagglesnock. You mean until 
you have concluded. 

Miss Snicks (angrily). No, sir! I mean 
just what I say. Do you pretend to in- 
culcate the abject and unconquerable idea 
that I cannot give the proper words in their 
proper places, and expatiate and preponder- 
ate to a certainty on the inexplicable 

Mrs. Swagglesnock. Let's get to busi- 
ness. We didn't come here to waste time 
and say big words. Important work is be"- 
fore us. 

Miss Snicks. I'm sure I was making 
the opening speech, and was digressing 
spontaneously, but was direfully and rue- 
fully interrupted. 

Mrs. Swagglesnock. The first thing in 
order is to elect a President. 

Miss Snicks. I do not like to put my- 
self forward, but I think this society, the 
great Frog Hollow Woman's Rights So- 
ciety, should have a President who could 
use sweeping and high-sounding words, 



and who would be an inflammable and 
never-receding light, and one that could ad- 
dress all the women's rights conventions 
and mass meetings, and be an honor to her- 
self, her friends, her society, and her female 
relations. I, therefore, think that I should 
be your President ; but pardon me in making 
the direful provocation. 

Florabel. I don't know what that 
means. 

Miss Higgins. I'm in favor of Miss 
Snicks for President ; she's the oldest. 

Miss Snicks (springing to her feet). 
It isn't so. Thirty-two summers alone have 
passed over my unwrinkled brow. I tell 
you, Mary Ann Higgins, you are the oldest, 
and you know it! 

Miss Higgins. It isn't so ! 

Miss Snicks. It is ! 

Florabel. I think you are both pretty 
old chickens. 

Miss Higgins. And what are you ? An 
impertinent minx, and you ought to be at 
home! 

Miss Snicks. You are a dilapidated 
decoction of diametrical docility. 

Florabel (aside). Goodness, I think she 
must have swallowed another dictionary 
this morning! 

Miss Snicks. You are the conglomera- 
tion and the expurgation of the quintessence 
of all the constitutional impudence in crea- 
tion. How do you like that, hey? 

Florabel. I like that first-rate! But 
how about the President ? Wouldn't I run 
well? 

Miss Snicks. Yes; you run well after 
the young men, that's all ! 

Florabel. And the young men run after 
me ; but they don't trouble you old gals very 
much. 

Miss Higgins. For my part, I hold my- 
self aloof from the male sect. I despise 
them, one and all. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



197 



Florabel. The "male sect" must take it 
pretty hard. 

Miss Snicks. And for my part, I 
throw my head loftily aloof and pass the 
male sect with impetuosity and fiery indig- 
nification, never once condescending in my 
unlimited and unfirmamentable scorn to 
look upon those bituferated bipeds, who 
would dare to take away our rights and 
trample our liberties under their unhallowed 
feet. 

Florabel. Oh, dear! 

Mrs. S waggles nock. There will be 

nothing done here to-day. I'm going home. 

[Exit Mrs. Swagglesnock. 

Miss Snicks (continuing) . And thus it 
is. Trifling discouragements and small 
botherfications make small-minded people 
forget that there is an extraordinary — and 
— and — an anti-spasmodical work to be 
done. The world is one great parenthetical 



and antediluvian field, which the octoge- 



narian 

Miss Higgins (aside). The old fool 

[Exit hastily. 

Miss Snicks (continuing). Worker and 
believer in woman's rights will have to 
unsallivate and throw the direful effects 
arising from the opprobriousness upon the 
status of the ignus fat us and the aristo- 
cratus 

Florabel. Of the crazy Snicks snatus. 
Finish the dictionary, old gal, and then 
come home. Good-by. If you choke on one 
of your big words write and let me know. 

[Exit. 

Miss Snicks. Impudent minx ! They are 
gone, and will not listen to golden words 
and magnificent splutterances. Well, I sup- 
pose we will have to postpone until the next 
adjournment. 

CURTAIN. 



t<5* ^5* ^5* 



MOTHER EARTH AND THE MAY QUEEN 



LIZZIE M. HADLEY. 



Characters. 

Mother Earth, Dame Nature, Mr. 
Weathercock, May, Queen of May. 

Sunbeams, eight very small children, 
with song. 

May Flower, Arum, Yarrow, Dande- 
lion, Anemone, Yellow Weed, six girls, 
with recitation. 

Crocus, Lady-slipper, Trillium, Daf- 
fodil, four girls, with extracts from the 
poets. 

Birds, a troupe of little folks, with song 
and march, in which the flowers join. 

May Pole Dancers, selected for the pur- 
pose. 

Scene — A lawn, or woodland, with gaily- 
decked background; elevated positions 
for Mother Earth and Dame Nature; 



the various participants wearing a 
dress, sash, or flozver, to indicate the 
character represented. The introduc- 
tion of music at proper intervals will 
aid the children in performing their 
parts. 

MOTHER EARTH. I'm fairly worn 
out. No sooner do I get the snow 
and ice fairly settled for the winter and the 
flowers safely tucked into their beds, than 
up jumps the sun and hints that it is time 
for them to be stirring again, and that I 
had better clear away the snow drifts. Then 
of course everything goes wrong. The 
north wind comes blustering round undo- 
ing all my work ; the south wind, who ought 
to be at home helping me, goes scurrying 
off, no one knows where, and even the flow- 



198 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



ers declare it isn't time to grow, and not one 
of them will stir. Oh, dear ! such wayward 
children! They will break my heart. 
(Wipes her eyes.) 

Dame Nature. Truly, mother, your 
life is a hard one. But come, cheer up, 
better days are coming I am sure. 

Mother Earth. I hope so, for I am 
getting quite discouraged. Just look at the 
old brown gown I am wearing, and there's 
the spring dressmaker pretends she can't 
find green enough to finish my new one, 
and here it is half-past April by the season's 
clock. I don't know what to do with such 
children; they are getting beyond my con- 
trol and unless there is a change very soon 
we shall have no May Day. 

Dame Nature. Why don't you consult 
Mr. Weathercock ? He may be able to send 
the south wind to help you. 

Mother Earth. I will, and, as good 
luck will have it, here he comes now. (En- 
ter Mr. Weathercock.) Good morning to 
you, neighbor. 

Mr. Weathercock. Good morning, 
Mother Earth and fair Dame Nature. What 
mean these anxious faces? Surely the 
springtime should bring only happiness. 

Mother Earth. How can I be happy 
when I am so anxious ? Everything is late. 

Mr. Weathercock. We have had a 
tardy spring. Indeed my neck is quite stiff 
from trying to keep track of the winds. 

Mother Earth (anxiously). What are 
our prospects for May Day ? Can you help 
us? 

Mr. Weathercock (looking about him). 
I'm looking north, I'm looking south, 

I'm glancing east and west, 
Dear, kindly Mother Earth, for you 

I'll try to do my best. 
The warm south wind will soon be here, 

I see him on his way, 



So summon from their wintry beds 
The flowers to welcome May. 

Mother Earth. Thank you, Mr. 
Weathercock. Now, Dame Nature, if you 
will help me we will try to waken the lag- 
gard flowers. 

Mother Earth and Dame Nature. 
Come, little flowers, 
Springtime is coming, 
'Tis time to arise, 
Flowers fair, flowers sweet, 
Open your eyes. 
(Enter Sunbeams, skipping and dancing.) 

Mother Earth. What curious folks are 
these? Whence come you, little ones? 

Sunbeams (singing — air: "Rosalie, the 
Prairie Flozver"). 

We are little sunbeams, 

Dancing here and there, 
And we've come to help you, 

Earth so fair. 
We will wake the flowers 
From their winter's sleep, 
Send them hither, May to keep. 

CHORUS. 

Yes, we are children 

Of the shining sun, 
See he has sent us 

One by one, 
Pretty yellow pencils 

Of golden light, 

We have come to waken night. 

Come, my pretty flow'rets, 

Open wide your eyes, 
Winter's over, now 'tis time 

To arise. 
Birdie in the tree-top 
Sings his sweetest strain, 
Bright springtime is here again. 

(Chorus.) 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



199 



Now they all have heard us, 

From their little beds, 
See where one by one, they 

Lift their heads. 
Oh, my pretty flowers, 
Sleep no more I pray, 
Come here and help us keep May Day. 

(Chorus.) 

The first group of dowers, having been se- 
creted, before rise of curtain, behind 
screens, fancy parasols, or large Japa- 
nese fans, now peep out in turn from 
their hiding places, and all arise as last 
verse is sung. 

Flowers (in concert). 
Something's astir, 
Hear the birds chirp and chatter, 
What can it be? Dear me, what's the 
matter ? 

(They hide again.) 

Sunbeams (calling to them). 
Don't you know, flower lassies, 
For each year that passes, 
In spite of the work, there is o'er time for 

play, 
And every one has its own holiday. 
Cold winter is over, glad springtime is here, 
And that's what the chirping and chatter 

means, dear. 

Flowers (rising). 
Oh, thank you, kind sunbeams, 
For telling the reason, 
But what is the holiday, pray, for this 
season ? 

Sunbeams. 
The brightest and best in the annals, I'm 

told, 
Glad May Day, so famous in stories of old, 
So wake from your slumber, now winter is 

over, 
Come, lift up your heads, my bonny red 

clover, 



Come, Mayflowers sweet, and buttercups 

bold, 
Come, dandelions, lift up your faces of gold, 
All come here together, my blossoms so 

bright, . 
Each one in your springtime colors bedight. 

Mother Earth. I thank you, fair Sun- 
beams. You have started the lazy flowers 
at last. (Flowers come forward.) Here 
they come now. Good morrow, my pretty 
ones! 

Flowers. 

Good morrow, gentle Mother Earth, 

To you we make our bow, 
We heard the sunbeams call us, 

And so we greet you now. 
Oh, yes, we flower people 

Have all come here to-day, 
And we'll show you how we mean 

To keep this springtime holiday. 

May Flower. 

See, I'm the little Mayflower, 

Beside the brooklet's brink, 
When springtime winds are blowing, 

I lift my buds of pink. 

Arum. 

Within the woods you'll find me, 

The Arum — if you search. 
I preach to all the flower folk 

Who care to go to church. 

Yarrow. 

I'm but a summer flower, 

And yet I'm here to-day 
To tell you how we flowers keep 

This happy first o' May. 

Dandelion. 

See! I'm a Dandelion, 

So sturdy, strong and bold, 
The merry children laugh to see 

My starry face of gold. 



200 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Anemone. 

Because with all the breezes, 

I nod my head, you see 
The children call me "wind-flower," 

But my name's Anemone. 
Yellow Weed (Buttercup) . 
My name is little Buttercup ; 

But you may somewhere read 
That the country folk in olden days 

Oft called me Yellow-weed. 
Dame Nature. 
Now that was well said, my fair little 

flowers. 
Come rest for awhile within these shady 

bowers, 
For see, just behind you with music and 

song, 
More gay flower-folk come trooping along. 

( They step aside. ) 
Enter other flowers and May. 
Flowers. 
We heard the wood birds* carol, 

Upon the tasseled trees, 
And so we lifted up our heads, 
To catch the passing breeze ; 
And then we heard you calling, 

And so, we came this way, 
We bring your youngest daughter, — 

The merry month of May. 
Mother Earth. You are welcome, dear 
daughter, beloved alike by young and old. 
(May bozvs and steps back with flowers.) 
Dame Nature. Of a truth, she hath a 
goodly presence, and you may well be proud 
of your fair daughter. But why do you call 
her May? 

Mother Earth. Her name comes from 
the Latin Marius, meaning, to grow — tak- 
ing its name from Maia, one of the heathen 
deities. 

Dame Nature. Well named, indeed! 
She is a growing month, and giveth new 
life and joy to all who greet her. 



Mother Earth. Aye, and many curi- 
ous rites of old did usher in her coming. 
E'en royalty itself did not disdain to seek 
the fields and woods and "fetch the haw- 
thorn blooms" to crown the month of May. 
The ancient Romans, too, held a springtime 
feast in honor of the goddess Flora. Poets 
have sung the praises of the merry month ; 
wouldst hear some of their words of praise ? 

Dame Nature. That would please me 
right well. 

Mother Earth. Come, fair flowers, 
can you tell us aught that the poets have 
said? 

Flowers. 
Yes, kind Mother Earth, 

Gladly we will now say 
Words that have been said or sung 

Of the month of May. 

Crocus. 
Now lilacs break out into buds ; 

Now spicy winds are blowing ; 
And 'tis heigho ! the daffodils 

Down in the garden growing. 

— M. F. Butts. 

Ladyslipper. 

May shall make the bud appear 
Like a jewel, crystal clear, 
Mid the leaves upon the limb 
Where the robin lilts his hymn. 

— Frank Dempster Sherman. 
Trillium. 
May with cowslip-braided locks 

Walks through the land in green attire ; 
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox 
His torch of fire. 

— Bayard Taylor. 
Daffodil. 
April and May one moment meet, — 

But farewell sighs their greetings 
smother ; 
And breezes tell, and birds repeat 
How May and April love each other. 
— Lucy Larcorn. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



201 



All The Flowers. 
Time presses, and we may not stay 

To tell you all the words 
That poets oft have sung and said, 

For see ! here come the birds — 
Robins, bluebirds, swallows, 

Orioles, blithe and gay, 
These and many more have come 

To welcome in the May : 

Birds (singing — Tune: "Sing a Song of 
Sixpence''). 

Sing a song of birdies 
Flying here and there 
In the shady woodlands, 
Through the sunny air. 

Sing a song of birds' nests 

Underneath the eaves, 
Nestled in the tree tops 

'Mong the starting leaves. 

Sing a song of birds' eggs 

Blue as summer's sky, 
When their doors are open'd 

Out the birdlings fly. 

(Flowers join in the song.) 
Sing a song of springtime's 

Merry month of May. 
And of flowers gathered ' 

Here to keep May Day. 

Sing about the May-Queen, 
(They lead her forward.) 
Flower-crowned, you see, 

Gayest little lassie 
In the world is she. 

Oh, our sovereign lady, 

Bow we unto thee ; 
Birds and flowers together 

Vow thee fealty. 

May Queen. 
True and loyal, Oh, my subjects, 

You will ever be, I ween, 
So, gay birds and pretty flowers, 

Take the blessing of your Queen. 



Mother Earth. 

I, too, now would welcome 
The fair Queen o' May, 
It is well you are here, 

Though you reign but a day. 
Dame Nature. 

Thy voice is as sweet 

As the low, rippling waters. 
My greeting now to thee 
May's fairest of daughters. 
Mr. Weathercock. 
My respects to your majesty, Queen of the 

May, 
For your sake, the winds shall be quiet 
to-day. 
May Queen. 
Thanks for pleasant words of greeting 

One and all have given to me, 
I will try to be, my subjects, 
Worthy of your loyalty. 
But old Time goes hurrying onward, 

With him there is no delay, 
So, together let us frolic 

Through the shining hours to-day. 
Hand in hand, close-locked together, 

Let us all at once advance, 
While our voices ring out gayly, 
We will round the May-pcle dance. 
They dance around May-pole, singing: 
Tune — "Buy a Broom." 
The robin just whispered, "Oh, springtime 
is coming, 
The flowers' gay banners are all now un- 
furled, 
And down in the meadows, the bees are a- 
humming, 
For springtime, fair springtime's renew- 
ing the world." 
Chorus — 

We'll be gay ! we'll be gay ! 
See the bluebirds gayly winging, 
And the robins lightly swinging, 
Hear happy voices ringing, 
Singing, here is May. 



202 MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 

HOBSON'S CHOICE. 

J. S. MURPHY. 

An uproarious farce in one act, illustrating the ludicrous and perplexing predicaments in 

which a similarity of names places a nervous and modest grocer, who is 

mistaken for a popular hero by the ladies in an Atlantic City 

cottage during the Spanish-American war. 



Characters. 

Richmond P. Hobbs (Mr. Hobbs' son), a 
Hoboken grocer. 

Mrs. Sapphira Hobbs, his wife, a small 
woman with a large temper. 

Richmond P. Hobson, the hero of the 
Merrimac. 

Dr. Marian Measles, a very new woman, 
but "mannish" in appearance. 

Mrs. Maria Quigg, proprietor of Quigg's 
cottage. 

Miss Adelaide von Chatterton, Miss 
Eugenia Montmorency, Miss Ger- 
trude WlGGLESWORTH, MlSS MlLDRED 

Fitz-Wilson, guests of the cottage 
and hero worshipers. 
Patience Magillicuddy, the lady of the 

kitchen. 
Koopay, a seashore cabman. 
Klubbs, an Atlantic City policeman. 
Scene — Dining-room in Quigg's cottage 
August, 1898. Entrances right and 
left, and right and left center at back. 
Patience discovered arranging table in 
center of stage. Enter Mrs. Quigg 
from right zvith letter in hand. 
RS. QUIGG. Patience, we'll soon 
have a man in the cottage now. 
Patience. Fortune be praised, mum. 
Shure, this Spanish war's an awful blow till 
us gur-r-ls. 

Mrs. Q. There's hardly a male guest on 
the island. 

Patience. Sorry a wan, mum. Aven 
Thorndyke's futman — ond a foine luckin' 
mon he wuz — has gone afl wid the marine 
corpse. 

Mrs. Q. (laughing). What is the ma- 
rine corpse, Patience? 



M 



Patience. Shure, it's the dead min the 
sailyors sphin yarn for. 

Mrs. Q. To make their shrouds, I sup- 
pose. 

Patience. Indade, I don't know, mum. 
But who is it's comin' here? 

Mrs. Q. (proudly). Mr. Hobson, the 
hero of the Merrimac. 

Patience. Av he's a Merry Mack he 
must be a gude-natured Irishman. 

Mrs. Q. He's coming here to regain his 
health, which was shattered in a Spanish 
prison. I forget the name, but it was Moro 
something. 

Patience. Oh, I know — Moryomensing. 
Enter Dr. Measles, right. 

Dr. Measles. I hear that Mr. Hobson 
is coming here. 

Mrs. Q. I expect him by the next train. 
I hope everything is ready for 



M. 



Dr. 
him. 
Mrs. Q. 
Dr. M. . 



room is right. 



Ready and waiting. 
I should like to see whether his 
I feel it my duty as a medi- 
cal practitioner to help him regain his 
health. 

Mrs. Q. We all feel the same way, Doc- 
tor, I'm sure. 

Dr. M. I shall take it upon myself to see 
that Patience cooks his food hygienically. 

Patience (bristling up.) Indade, Dr. 
Mazles, Oi'll do me own cookin' mesilf. 

Dr. M. (decisively.) You will do it much 
better under the supervision of a physician. 

Patience. Oi wull luck after the soup 
all roight. 

Dr. M. Mrs. Quigg, I wish to inspect 
Mr. Hobson's room. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



203 



Mrs. Q. Come with me, Doctor. 

[Exit Mrs. Q. and Dr. M. 

Patience. Oi shuppose Mazles wull 
want me to do the cookin' in caster ile. 
Shure, the poor-ir mon's in hard luck. Be- 
gorry, av Mazles takes howld av fwhat the 
Spaniards has left av 'im she'll make 'im 
sorry he didn't sink with his ship. 
Enter Miss von Chatter ton, Miss Mont- 
morency, Miss Wigglesworth, and 
Miss Fitz-Wilson, by different doors, 
cautiously, and each oblivious of the 
others. They tip-toe to Patience, to 
whom they all speak at once in subdued 
tones. 

All Four. Is he here yet, Patience? 
(Patience looks at one after the other in 
surprise, and they also are surprised when 
they become aware of the presence of each 
other.) 

Each (to the others). Oh, I didn't see 
you! 

Patience. Ez who here? 

All Four. Our hero, Hobson, the brave. 

Patience. Not yit; but he'll be here 
purty soon. Onyhow, Oi don't think yous 
gur-r-ls will huv much show at him. 

All Four. Why not, Patience? 

Patience. Dr. Mazles is goin' t' take 
charge av him. 

All Four. Who says so, Patience ? 

Patience. She diz; and fwhat she sez 
goes — outside av the cookin' departmint. 
She's upsthairs now luckin' av his room's 
all roight. [Exit right center. 

Miss von Chatterton. Only one man 
in the place, and that horrid doctor wants 
to monopolize him. 

Miss Montmorency. I wish this awful 
war was over. 

Miss Wigglesworth. I wish I was 
back in Philadelphia. 

Miss Fitz-Wilson. I wonder if any 
men are left there. 



Miss von C. I feel that I know Mr. 
Hobson already. I've had his picture for 
two months. 

Miss M. I've written poetry about him. 

Miss W. That doesn't give you any 
claim on him. 

Miss M. Yes it does. 

Miss von C. No it doesn't. 

Miss M. More than buying his picture 
does. 

Miss W. Maybe it isn't his picture 
at all. 

Miss von C. It is his picture. 

Miss F. How do you know ? You never 
saw him. 

Miss von C. I cut it from a magazine; 
his name's under it. 

Miss F. I have his signature in my auto- 
graph album. 

The Others. Oh-h ! How did you get 
it? 

Miss F. I got it with a pound of mixed 
tea and pasted it in the album. It looks real 
cute. 

Miss W. What is his full name ? 

Miss F. Richmond Pearson Hobson. 

Miss W. Is he the one that said : "On, 
Richmond, on"? 

Miss M. You mean, "Charge, Rich- 
mond, charge!" 

Miss W. No, indeed ; he's a hero. 

Miss M. Well, heroes have things 
charged. 

Miss F. So do their wives. (Patience 
enters, listening. ) 

Miss von C. Do you know what it was 
made him a hero? 

Miss M. He kissed all the girls in Cuba. 

Miss W. He sank a Spanish mackerel 
fleet and said: "There's glory enough for 
all!" 

Miss F. He stopped the Cubans from 
making Havana cigars from Spanish 
onions. 



204 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Patience. Bedad, yer all wrong. He 
joomped overboard and saved an Irish 
saiiyorman named Merry Mack. 

Miss von C. There must be six Rich- 
monds in the field. 

Patience. Av they're not vaccinated 
Mazles wull catch thim all. 

All Four. Do you think so, Patience? 

Patience. Mazles is very catchin', ond 
av you gur-r-ls don't luck yer purtiest the 
dochter wull be Hobson's ch'ice. 

All Four. Oh, oh, oh, oh! (Each 
takes out a pocket mirror and looks at her- 
self critically.) 

Miss von C. My frizzes are out. I must 
fix them. [Exit. 

Miss Mont. My nose is red. That will 
never do. [Exit. 

Miss Wig. My head looks like a fright. 

[Exit. 

Miss Fitz. I must change my bow. 

[Exit. 

Patience. Av onny poo-ir mon ivir de- 
sarved a pinshin, it wull be Hobson fwhen 
he escapes from this place. He'll foind it 
takes a braver mon till face the gur-r-ls 
single-honded at Atlantic City thon it diz 
till run past the Spanish foorts in Santiago 
harbor. 

[Exit, shaking head dolefully, right. 

Enter Koopay, left, carrying two cabas. 

Koopay. Here you are, sir, right end 
uppermost, as the man said when he trod 
on a tack in his stockin'-feet a-tryin' to 
hush the babby in the middle of the night. 
Enter Hobbs, with a fan in one hand and a 
folded sun-umbrella in the other. He 
looks around suspiciously, walks softly, 
acts timidly, and speaks in a mild, sub- 
dued voice. 

Hobbs. Are you sure this is Twigg's 
Cottage ? 

Koopay. Sure as Davy Crockett afore 
he went ahead. 



Hobbs. Thank you. How much do I 
owe you? 

Koopay. Twenty-five fer the ride and 
fifty cents fer amusin' ye with conversation 
'long the road. 

Hobbs (looking in pocketbook). A dol- 
lar is the smallest I have. 

Koopay (taking it). I'll git it changed 
at the store. I'll buy a quarter's worth oo' 
cigars. See ? 

Hobbs. But I don't smoke. 

Koopay. No; but I do. S' long, boss. 
Any time ye want another ride lemme know. 

[Exit, left. 

Hobbs (looking around). Strange Sap- 
phira isn't here to meet me. I suppose she's 
having her afternoon nap. I don't hear a 
sound. This is just the kind of a place I 
need. (Lays hat and umbrella on table, and 
puts the cabas beside chair in which he sits.) 
I'll have a nice, quiet time here, and I'll go 
back to town feeling like a new man. 
Strange there's no one here to meet me. 
Maybe Sapphira's never told 'em. That's 
it. She knows I'm nervous and don't want 
any fuss made over me ; so I suppose I'll 
have to wait here until somebody comes, 
and then I can explain. I'll read the paper 
awhile. (He takes out a paper and reads.) 
Ah ! Well, well ! "Insanity on the increase 
among the fashionable women of America." 

Patience (entering, right; aside). Ah, 
there he is now ! But ain't he the quiet 
luckin' little mon for a hero? Shure, thim 
brave min's always quiet. 'The wans that 
makes the noise niver diz onnything else. 
Oi'm the fur-st wan t' see 'im, ond Oi'll be 
the fur-rst t' sphake till 'im. (Aloud.) Is 
this Mishter Hob-son? (Hobbs jumps up 
nervously, dropping paper and upsetting 
chair. ) 

Hobbs. Ye-yes. I — I — a — just arrived. 
Was I expected? 

Patience. Indade ye were. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



205 



Hobbs. I suppose Mrs. 

Patience. Mrs. Quigg has ivirything 
prepared fur ye. 

Hobbs. I'm very glad to know it. 

Patience. Ivirybody wull be glad to 
welcome Mr. Hob-son, ond wull be proud 
to be sthayin' in under the same roof wid 
him. 

Hobbs. You are very kind, I'm sure. 

Patience. Oi'll go ond tell Mrs. Quigg 
yer come. 

Hobbs. Thank you. (He watches Pa- 
tience, who goes to right entrance, where 
she stops, takes out a small American Hag 
and waves it at Hobbs l cheering in a sub- 
dued voice.) 

Patience. Hooray ! Hooray ! Hooray ! 

Hobbs {greatly astonished). That young 
woman seems to be bubbling over with pa- 
triotism. It's astonishing how this war 
with Spain has aroused the American peo- 
ple. I'm glad to see it. (Sits.) It only 
needed this to unite our glorious country 
into one coherent homogeneous mass of 
consolidated patriotism, of which it be- 
hooves all foreign governments to take im- 
mediate and perpetual notice. Now, then, 
to resume this extraordinary article. {He 
reads. ) 

Mrs. Q. {entering right, aside). Ah, 
there he is, sure enough ! How noble look- 
ing. Reminds me of poor, dear Quigg. I 
must speak to him. {Aloud.) I believe I 
have the honor of addressing Mr. Hob-son ? 
{Hobbs jumps up and bows.) 

Hobbs {aside) Hobbs' son! She, too, 
seems to be acquainted with father. 
{Aloud.) Yes, ma'am, I am Mr. Hobbs' 
son. {Aside.) The old man must have 
been here. {Aloud.) And you are Mrs. 
Twigg? 

Mrs. Q. (bowing). At your service, sir. 

Hobbs. Thank you. You're very kind. 



Mrs. Q. Pray, be seated, sir. I will re- 
move your luggage to your room. 

Hobbs. No ; let me do it. 

Mrs. Q. Oh, no ; I couldn't think of it. 
I consider it an honor, sir. 

Hobbs. Thank you. I should like 

Mrs. Q. Just make yourself at home, 
and I will have a nice, tempting luncheon 
set out for you. 

Hobbs. But, madam, if it is not incon- 
venient, I should like to see 

Mrs. Q. No trouble at all. Everybody 
will be delighted to see you. Now, pray, 
make yourself easy while I give my orders. 
{Aside.) To think that such a hero should 
be so modest and unassuming. Just like the 
late Mr. Quigg. (Takes Hobbs' two cabas, 
goes to right door, where she repeats Hag 
business, and exits.) 

Hobbs. The landlady also is filled to 
overflowing with patriotism. I like to see 
it. I wonder how Sapphira likes it. I 
shouldn't wonder if they made her patriotic, 
too. By jingo, I feel like saying ''hurrah!" 
myself. I believe I'm beginning to im- 
prove already. Now, then, to finish this 
startling article. (Sits and reads.) 

Dr. M. (entering right; aside, admir- 
ingh')' Ah! my beau ideal of a hero. But 
a man in the nervous condition sure to be 
brought on by confinement in a prison must 
not read. No, no. Conversation, and 
promenades, and proper diet are what he 
must have, and it is my duty as a patriotic 
American to see that he gets them. 
(Snatches paper.) Mr. Hobson, I believe? 

Hobbs (timidly). Yes, sir — ma'am — I 
mean — that is — yes. (Aside.) She knows 
the old man, too. 

Dr. M. I am Dr. Measles. You are very 
nervous. 

Hobbs. Yes, Doctor. I suppose you have 
been talking with Mrs. 



206 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Dr. M. With no one. I saw it as soon 
as I focused my professional eyes on you. 

Hobbs (timidly). Do you think 

Dr. M. (imperiously). I do not think, 
sir; I know that you must not read news- 
papers with their exciting, sensational 
articles. It is poison to one in your 
neurasthenic state. Let me feel your pulse. 
I knew it. Pulse feeble and fluctuating. 
Show me your tongue. (He puts out 
tongue a little.) Open your mouth wider. 
(He does so.) And put out your tongue as 
if you meant it to be out on dress-parade. 
(He obeys.) Um-m ! Coated. 
Hobbs. Coated ! 

Dr. M. (strongly). Yellow-coated! 
Hobbs. I'm surprised. 
Dr. M. You needn't be. It results from 
reading yellow journals. 

Hobbs. v Doctor, what kind of coat 
should my tongue have when it's out on 
dress-parade ? 

Dr. M. (severely). I never allow my 
patients to treat the subject of health with 
levity. Remain perfectly quiet while I see 
about your food. 

[Exits, with more flag business. 
Hobbs. The Doctor has it. It must be 
epidemic. Somebody has inoculated every- 
body else with rampant, flag-waving, hip- 
hip-hurraying patriotism. I wish Sapphira 
would come. If any more of these effer- 
vescent patriots hurrah at me I'm afraid I 
may get a nervous chill. I admire patriot- 
ism, especially American red, white and 
blue patriotism ; but when it becomes a dis- 
ease there is no telling where it may lead, 
particularly to a man whose pulse is feeble 
and fluctuating, and whose tongue has a 
yellow coat just like a Chinese prime min- 
ister. 

Enter Miss von C, left, with small flag; they 
eye each other steadfastly as she crosses 
to door, right, and goes through flag 



exercise, cheers with suppressed ardor, 

and exits. 
Hobbs. Another of 'em; right good- 
looking, too. This is the most remarkable 
experience I've ever had. 

Miss F. enters right, with a flag; crosses to 
left, watching Hobbs admiringly (as 
he watches her suspiciously, and fol- 
lows at a safe distance), repeating, 
"Huzzah! Huzzahl' Huzzahl" and 
exits. 

Hobbs. I wonder if these people are 
crazy. That article said that insanity is 
greatly on the increase among the fashion- 
able women of America. I wonder if I've 
struck some kind of a sanitarium. I wish 
Sapphira were here. I'll try if I can find 
her. (Crosses to right, but halts on seeing 
Miss M. enter. She begins waving a flag 
round her head.) Another; she's as crazy 
as a March hare. So young and handsome, 
too. Poor thing! I must humor her. (He 
takes out a handkerchief, waves it every 
time she waves the flag.) The people have 
gone crazy over the war. Probably they've 
lost their relatives — their brothers, or hus- 
bands, or lovers. (She advances, waving 
flag, and he retreats, waving handkerchief. ) 

Miss M. Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah! 

Hobbs. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! 

Miss M. makes a quick advance. Hobbs 
turns to run out left, but encounters 
Miss W., who enters, bearing a flag. 
Hobbs stops, and he and Miss W. gaze 
at each other a moment in silence. 
Hobbs (aside). Two of 'em! This thing 
is becoming alarming. 

Miss W. (waving flag). Huzzah! huz- 
zah ! huzzah ! 

Hobbs (responding feebly). Huzzah! 
huzzah! huzzah! (He retreats as Miss W. 
advances. ) 
Miss M. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! 




Photo by Byron, N. Y. 



A TOKEN OF LOVE. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



209 



Hobbs (turning to her). Huzzah! huz- 
zah ! huzzah ! 

Miss W. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! 
Hobbs (taking out another handker- 
chief). Huzzah! huzzah! huzzah! 

Miss M. Huzzah ! huzzah ! huzzah ! 
Hobbs huzzahs alternately to the tivo ladies, 
until Miss W. advances to door right 
center and Miss M. to door left center, 
with Hobbs standing between them near 
the table. Both ladies wave and huzzah 
together, Hobbs waving both handker- 
chiefs at once. They jump towards him 
and finally disappear. Hobbs jumps back 
against the table which moves forward 
and he falls beneath it, then lies on his 
back waving and huzzahing zvildly. 
Hobbs (under table). Huzzah! huzzah! 
huzzah! Every body! huzzah for every- 
thing! I've got the disease myself! Huz- 
zah ! hip, hip, huzzah ! 
Enter Dr. Measles, carrying red, zvhite and 
blue napkin, followed by Mrs. Q. with 
pitcher of ice-water, knife, fork and 
spoon, and Patience with a table-cloth. 
They are astonished to see Hobbs and ex- 
press sympathy. 
Dr. M. My dear patient ! 
Patience. Pu-ir mon! 
Mrs. Q. What ever can be the matter? 
Dr. M. (lifting him to a chair.) Those 
papers have brought on an attack of vertigo. 
(She fans him with the red, zvhite and blue 
napkin, which starts him off again.) 

Hobbs (zvaving). Huzzah! huzzah! 

huzzah! All round, for everybody, for 

everything! (Collapses, and rolls up eyes.) 

Patience. He's kilt ! he's kilt ! arrah me, 

he's kilt! 

Dr. M. (authoritatively.) Leave it all to 

me. The best thing in a case of this kind 

is an application of ice-cold water to the 

base of the cerebellum. 

Mrs. Q. Here it is, Doctor. (Mrs Q. 



pours water on the napkin as Dr. M. holds 
it, and applies it to the back of Hobbs' neck. 
He jumps to his feet and zvriggles.) 

Hobbs. Ouch! Take it off! My spine's 
on fire! Put it out and I'll huzzah for a 
week. 

Dr. M. (taking the napkin from his neck.) 
I knew that would bring him around. 
There's nothing like ice-cold water in such 
cases. 

Hobbs. Ice-cold water! I thought it 
was a red-hot poker you were running up 
and down my spine ! 

Dr. M. Now, sit down and remain quiet 
while we get your luncheon ready. After 
you get that I'll allow you to take a nap, 
and you will awake greatly improved. 
Mrs. Q. and Patience set the table and exit 

right. Dr. M. in the interval patting 

Hobbs* hands and rubbing his forehead. 

He presents a pitiful sight and speaks in a 

tone of anguish. 

Hobbs (aside). How will I ever get out 
of this place? Where can Sapphira be? I 
must ask! (Aloud.) Doctor. 

Dr. M. Shish (putting her finger to her 
lips and then placing her hand over Hobbs' 
mouth) ! You must not talk yet. Let me 
prepare you for your luncheon. (She tucks 
the napkin under his chin like a bib as Mrs. 
Q. enters, follozved by Miss von C, Miss 
M., Miss W. and Miss F. each carrying a 
dish. Patience brings up the rear zvith a 
huge tureen.) 

Dr. M. Now, Mrs. Quigg, what have 
you first? 

Mrs. Q. (taking tureen.) Some delicious 
snapper soup. 

Hobbs (brightening and smacking his 
lips). If there's anything I dote on it is 
snapper soup. 

Dr. M. Take it away ! It would poison 
a man of his nervous temperament. 

Hobbs (disappointed). I'm not as nerv- 



210 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



gus as I was, Doctor. I think that half a 
bowl 

The Others. Oh, yes ; just half a bowl. 

Dr. M. (peremptorily.) Not a spoonful 
under any circumstances! Send it out, 
Mrs. Quigg! 

Mrs. Q. Patience, take it back. (Pa- 
tience takes it and exits.) 

Dr. M. What has Miss von Chatterton ? 

Miss von C. A lovely stewed lobster. 

Hobbs (cheering up). Lobster! I like it 
any old way. 

Dr. M. My dear man, that would kill 
you with cramps in an hour. Take it away. 

Miss von C. (going out, aside.) It's my 
opinion that this isn't the only lobster in 
Atlantic City. [Exit. 

Dr. M. Miss Montmorency, we'll try 
yours. What is it? 

Miss M. Fried scrapple and Dutch 
apple-dumplings. It's just lovely. 

Hobbs (gleefully). Scrapple and dump- 
lings will make a new man of me. 

Dr. M. It would make a dead man of 
you. Do you wish to commit suicide? 
Fried scrapple will kill anything ten miles 
away from Philadelphia. 

Mrs. Q. The dumplings will neutralize 
the ill effects of the scrapple. 

Dr. M. Not apple dumplings, especially 
Dutch apple dumplings. Dried apple dump- 
lings or pepper-pot dumplings might have 
been allowable, but not these. They would 
kill a door-knob. (With a dramatic ges- 
ture.) Remove the scrapple and the Dutch 
apple dumplings! 

Miss M. (going out with dish, aside.) 
It's my opinion that doctor doesn't know a 
Dutch apple dumpling from a Welch rarebit. 

[Exit. 

Dr. M. Now, Miss Wigglesworth ? 
(She lays her dish on table and Dr. M. 
sniffs at it suspiciously.) What in the 
world is it ? 



Miss W. Macaroni croquettes and 
cheese sauce. I'm sure that will soothe his 
nerves. 

Hobbs (bracing up). Ah! Macaroni and 
cheese ! I could eat it alive. 

Dr. M. Impossible. Macaroni alone 
would give you that terrible Italian disease 
— sciatica — before sundown, and cheese 
sauce at this season would simply be placing 
an undertaker's mortgage on your liver. 

Mrs. Q. Why, Doctor, the Ladies' Mag- 
azine specially recommends macaroni and 
cheese for August luncheons. 

Dr. M. Madam, if you feed the poor 
man by the Ladies' Magazine you will give 
him the barber's itch. Remove it ! 

Miss W. (going out with dish, aside.) I 
don't believe she is a doctor at all. She's a 
graduate of one of those six weeks' barber 
colleges. 

Dr. M. Next! 

Miss W. (triumphantly.) There! I knew 
she was a female barber. Next, indeed! 
She'll be feeding the poor fellow on lather 
and bay rum next ! [Exit. 

Dr. M. What have you, Miss Fitz-Wil- 
son? 

Miss F. (hesitating.) I'm afraid it won't 
answer. (Puts dish on table.) It's only 
plain water-cress and nothing more. 
(Hobbs makes a wry face.) 

Dr. M. (enthusiastically.) The finest 
thing in the world for nervous dyspepsia. 
A water-cress diet will starve it out of the 
system in a year. 

Hobbs (feebly). Doctor, I don't like 
water-cress. 

Dr. M. You must like water-cress. 

Hobbs (firmly). But I don't like water 
anything; not even water-crackers, or salt- 
water taffy. I can't even look at water 
colors without gagging. 

Miss von C. hurries in with a dish. 

Dr. M. Ah! What have we now? 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



211 



Miss von C. Carrot salad. 

Dr. M. Splendid! Splendid! 

Hobbs. I can't go carrots. Carrots are 
worse to me than a red-headed girl is to a 
mad bull. 

Dr. M. (who has red hair, severely.) 
Red hair has its mission in this world, sir ! 

Hobbs. But not in the cooking depart- 
ment, Doctor. 

Miss M. (entering, hurriedly, placing 
dish on table.) Fish balls! 

Miss W. (following her.) Gravy for the 
fish balls. 

Patience, (following with a large cov- 
ered dish.) Here's the sthuff! 

Dr. M. What is it, Patience? (All come 
up as Patience removes cover.) 

Patience, (waving it triumphantly.) 
Biled ingyins. (All jump away but Dr. M. 
Hobbs nearly collapses.) 

Dr. M. Ah ! a dish for the Roman gods. 
This is, indeed, a savory feast. 

Hobbs (whining). Doctor, I positively 
cannot eat onions. 

Dr. M. The very thing to make you 
strong, lusty, robust. 

Hobbs. I don't want to be strong; I 
want to be quiet. 

Dr. M. Quiet ! What so quieting to the 
nervous system as a diet of water-cress, car- 
rots, fish-balls and onions? 'Twill make 
you as quiet as the night before Christmas. 

Patience. Fwhin all t'rough the house 
not a thing was sthirring, not aven a mouse. 

Hobbs. Doctor, I don't want to be quiet 
that way. If I did, prussic acid or Paris 
green would be just as effective and more 
convenient than your prescription. 

Dr. M. Ungrateful man ! to speak thus 
after all our trouble. Eat, man, eat, and be 
glad you have fallen under our care. 

Hobbs (aside). If I don't get out of this 
lunatic asylum, Mrs. Hobbs will be a widow 
in twenty-four hours. Poor Sapphira ! she 



doesn't look well in black, either. (Rising, 
aloud.) If you will excuse me, ladies, I 
will not eat anything at present. I will take 
a stroll along the beach. 

Dr. M. That will never do. You must 
not stir until you have partaken of this 
hygienic feast that we have prepared ex- 
pressly for you. 

Hobbs. But I ain't hungry. 

Dr. M. You will get hungry as you eat. 
Sit down (forcing him back and holding 
him). Ladies, feed him ! (Each offers him 
a large spoonful or ladleful of something. 
Patience offers a huge onion on a fork. 
Hobbs protests. Dr. M. tries to pull his 
jazvs apart, when a commotion is heard out- 
side. ) 

Mrs. H. (outside.) You're sure he's in 
here ? 

Koopay (outside).. That's where I left 
him, mum. 

Mrs. H. (outside.) Come in with us, 
Officer ; I may need your services. 
Enter Mrs. Hobbs, Koopay and Klubbs, 
left. 

Koopay. There he is. Mebbe he ain't in 
it with both feet with all them good-lookin' 
girls round him. 

Mrs. H. I'll girl 'em (pushing them 
azvay). How dare you hang around my 
husband in this shameless manner? 

All. Mr. Hobson her husband ! 

Mrs. H. Yes, Mr. Hobbs' son is my 
husband. 

Hobbs. Save me, Sapphira! save me! 
They are feeding me to death ! 

Mrs. H. (snatching the napkin from his 
neck.) Why do you allow them to do it, 
you booby? Stand up ! (She pulls him up 
and shakes him.) Can't you feed yourself? 
(To the others.) How dare you feed my 
husband ? 

Dr. M. We were treating him for the 
benefit of his health. 



212 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Mrs. H. Health! What do you know 
about health? 

Dr. M. (frigidly.) I am a doctor, 
madam ! 

Mrs. H. Doctor ! You look more like a 
kidnapper. 

Dr. M. I am a graduate of two colleges, 
— old school and new school. 

Mrs. H. I don't care whether you're an 
old fool or a young fool, you shan't fool 
with my husband. 

Dr. M. Your husband, madam, has 
grossly deceived us. 

The Others (approvingly). Yes, yes, 
shamefully ! 

Mrs. H. How? 

Dr. M. By coming here and posing as a 
single man. 

Mrs. H. (shaking him.) Is this true, 
you wretch? 

Hobbs. They haven't given me a chance 
to pose yet. 

Mrs H. What are you doing here, any- 
how? 

Hobbs. Why, my dear, are you not stop- 
ping here? 

Mrs. H. You know very well that I am 
staying at Mrs. Twigg's cottage. 

Hobbs. They told me this was Mrs. 
Twigg's cottage. 

Mrs. H. (To Mrs. Q.) Did you, 
madam ? 

Mrs. Q. (haughtily.) Certainly not. This 
is my cottage. 

Hobbs. Aren't you Mrs. Twigg? 

Mrs. Q. (loftily.) No, sir, I am Mrs. 
Quigg. Mrs. Twigg has the little cottage 
in the street back of this. 

Mrs. H. (severely.) Mr. Hobbs, this is 
one of your little tricks. 

All (in surprise). Hobbs! 

Mrs. H. Hobbs, yes, Hobbs, and I am 
Mrs. Hobbs. 



Dr. M. Isn't he Richmond P. Hobson, 
the hero of Santiago? 

Hobbs (aside). That's a sly one. 

Mrs. H. He is Richmond P. Hobbs, son 
of John Oliver Hobbs, of Hoboken, New 
Jersey, green grocer. 

Mrs. Q. What! 

Dr. M. Green ! I might have known it. 

Miss von C. Gro-cer ! Go, sir ! 

Miss M. Hoboken ! Ye gods of Greece, 
weep for us! 

Miss W. And I was wasting macaroni 
croquettes on it. 

Miss F. I shall never enjoy the seashore 
again. ( They retire up the stage. ) 

Patience. Ain't ye the mon that kisses 
all the gur-r-ls? 

Mrs. H. Let me catch him at it if he 
dares ! 

Patience (disdainfully). A Hoboken 
canned-pea merchant! Ond him wantin' 
snapper-soup for lunch, bad 'cess to 'im. 
Oi'll take these ingyuns away. The Hobo- 
ken sphalpeen shan't hov annything till ate 
here. Let 'em go till Twigg's where they 
fade thim on dried apples ond paynuts on 
the half-shell, so they do. [Exit. 

Hobbs (after talking in pantomime with 
Mrs. H.) Now, Sapphira, if you love me, 
get me out of this lunatic asylum. 

Mrs. H. Where are your things? 

Hobbs (pointing to right). In there. 

Mrs. H. (severely.) You stand here. 
Don't budge till I come back. 

Hobbs (nodding toward Mrs. Q. and 
others). Suppose these flag-waving luna- 
tics make a rush for me? 

Mrs. H. (pointing to Hobb's bald head.) 
Who touches a hair of yon gray head dies 
like a dog ! Come on, Mr. Officer, and Mr. 
Cabman, help me find my husband's clothes, 
which these feeble-minded females have 
secreted somewhere. (She exits right fol- 
lowed by Klubbs and Koopay.) 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



213 



JCoopay {going, aside). I'll want an- 
other dollar and no change for this trip. 

Mrs. Q. Ladies, we had better follow 
that woman and watch her. There is no 
telling who she is or her purpose. 

Dr. M. She may not be his wife at all. 
The vixen ! to call me a kidnapper. 

Miss von C. As if any one would kid- 
nap that (pointing at Hobbs, who screens 
himself behind his opened umbrella). 

All (sneering at Hobbs as they go out). 
Ugh ! Ugh ! Ugh ! 

Hobbs (watching them off). If they 
imagine they can intimidate Mrs. Hobbs by 
going in a bunch like bananas they'll find 
they are mistaken. Sapphira is little, but, 
oh, my! she weighs a ton when she gets 
started. I wonder if there's anything on 
that table a starving man can eat. (He ex- 
amines contents of dishes.) I'll try a carrot 
for luck. (He gets one on a fork.) If I 
survive this I'll try a fish-ball. 
Enter Hobson, left, while Hobbs is eating. 

Hobson (watching Hobbs). David 
Paul Jones! what kind of a port have I 
sailed into? That lubber's helping himself 
out of the general mess. (Shouts.) Ship 
ahoy, messmates! (Hobbs drops fork and 
carrot, jumps up and opens umbrella as a 
shield.) Where's the captain? 

Hobbs (scared). Wh — wh — what cap- 
tain? 

Hobson. The captain of this craft. 

Hobbs. Do you m — m — mean the boss 
of the ranch? 

Hobson. I suppose that's how a land- 
lubber would put it. 

Hobbs (pointing). She's over there on 
dog watch. 

Hobson (looking around). I presume 
I'm in Mrs. Quigg's? 

Hobbs. Twigg's ? 

Hobson. Yes, Quigg's. 

Hobbs. Twigg's or Quigg's ? 



Hobson (bawling). Quigg's, you lubber, 
Quigg's. 

Hobbs (looking over umbrella). How 
does it begin? 

Hobson. In the name of Davy Jones 
what difference does it make? 

Hobbs. If your nerves are good and 
strong and your stomach can digest cork- 
soled shoes, none ; but if not, you don't want 
to get mixed on your Twigg's or Quigg's. 

Hobson. Quigg's ; yes, that's it, Quigg's. 
Is this Quigg's? 

Hobbs. Will you be kind enough to spell 
it? 

Hobson (aside). I suppose I must 
humor this imbecile. (Aloud.) Q — u — 



Hobbs. That's sufficient. 

Hobson. It ends with a double g. 

Hobbs. They both end with double g's. 
If you want the one beginning with a Q, 
this is it. 

Hobson. Q! Confound it, you talk as 
if I were hunting for a Chinese laundry, I 
am cruising around for Mrs. Quigg's sea- 
side cottage. 

Hobbs (as Mrs. Q. enters). Here she 
comes now ! (Aside.) He'll think he's struck 
a laundry when they start to feed him on 
that water-cress. 

Hobson (approaching and bowing). Is 
this Mrs. Quigg? 

Mrs. Q. Quigg, sir, or Twigg, sir ? 

Hobson (aside). I'd give a fig to know 
whether these people are twigging me with 
their Quigg, sir, or Twigg, sir. (Aloud.) 
Madam, I am looking for Mrs. Quigg's sea- 
side cottage. Is this it? 

Mrs. Q. There are two, sir — Mrs. 
Quigg's and Mrs. Twigg's. 

Hobson. I want only one. I can't board 
at two different houses at the same time, 
madam. I'm not twins. 



214 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



Mrs. Q. (haughtily.) I am Mrs. Quigg, 
sir. Who are you, pray? 

Hobson. I am Lieutenant Hobson. 

Hobbs (aside). Gad! he's my double. 

Mrs. Q. (screaming.) Police! Police! 
Police! (All come rushing on, including 
Klubbs and Koopay. Mrs. Hobbs rushes 
on carrying Hobbs' s cabas.) 

Klubbs. Wot's de row ? 

Mrs. Q. (pointing to Hobson.) Arrest 
that man ! He is in this conspiracy to rob 
my house! 

Hobson (to Klubbs). Stand back, sir! 
I am not a burglar ! I am an officer of the 
United States Navy — Lieutenant Richmond 
P. Hobson. 

Mrs. Q. (pointing to Hobbs.) Pshaw! 
that's what he said. 

Hobson (-fiercely). You're an impostor! 

Hobbs (using umbrella as a shield). 
First I was a hero, then I was a wretch; 
now I am an impostor. In a few minutes 
more I suppose Til be a lobster. Pray, go 
on. I'm enjoying this trip very much. I'm 
glad I didn't go to the mountains. If I had 
I suppose I would have been a genuine bald 
eagle by this time. 

Miss von C. (looking at a picture.) I 
do believe he is Lieutenant Hobson. He's 
just like his picture. (She kisses it and 
shows it to the other girls.) 

Hobson. Of course I'm Lieutenant 
Hobson. My trunks are at the depot. If 
you will send for them you will see my 
name on all of them. 

Mrs. Q. Koopay, go for the gentleman's 
trunks. 

Koopay (getting checks). I'll have 'em 
here in a jiffy. (Aside.) This is a two 
dollar job and no change. [Exit. 

Miss W. There is one infallible test by 
which we may know whether or not this is 
the genuine Santiago hero. 



All. What's that? 

Miss W. If he is he'll kiss all of us girls. 

All. Yes ! yes ! yes ! yes ! 

Hobson. Well, ladies, it's on rather 
short acquaintance; but if you can stand it 
I'll try and weather the gale. 

Patience (going to Hobson' s side). 
Shure, we can sthand it. 

Hobson (looking at her dubiously). 
Um-ra! courage, my boy, courage. You 
think you can ? 

Patience (puckering her month). Oi 
know Oi can. 

Dr. M. (going to Hobson.) All of us 
girls can. 

Hobson (looking at Dr. M. on one side 
and Patience on the other, dejectedly). 
Was it for this I was spared at Santiago? 

Hobbs. You must kiss 'em all ; Hobson, 
old boy, no firing of blank shots, you know, 
in this engagement. 

Hobson. All ! Is there no other choice 
in the matter ? 

Hobbs. Well, ah — there's one other 
choice. 

Hobson (eagerly). Name it! name it! 

Hobbs. You must kiss 'em all or buy 
dinners for all. 

Hobson (counting) . Eight kisses or ten 
dinners. 

Klubbs. Ahem ! 

Hobson. Eleven dinners, thank you. 

Hobbs. That's about the size of it at 
$2.50 per. 

Hobson (hesitating). Um-m! 

Hobbs. Well, what's Hobson's choice? 

Hobson (looking first at Patience's puck- 
ered mouth and then at Dr. M.'s). Bring 
on the dinners ! (Dinner gong sounds, and 
Koopay dumps in Hobson's trunks as cur- 
tain falls.) 

CURTAIN. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



215 



WHEN SCHOOL DAYS ARE ENDED. 



Characters. 

Louise Earnest ; Kate Spangle; Madge 

Flyaway; Lizzie Helpful; Susan 

Easy; Miss Leslie, a teacher; 

Little Girl. 

Scene, a schoolroom. Present, Louise 

and Kate. 

LOUISE. I say, Kate! what are you 
going to do when you leave school? 

Kate. What am I going to do? Why, 
what's put that into your head? 

Louise. It seems to me the most natural 
question in the world. Here we are in the 
last half-quarter of a four years' course. A 
few more weeks, and we shall be scattered, 
— I was going to add, as my grandmother 
would have done, "one to his farm, and an- 
other to his merchandise." I wish I could 
say it! 

Kate. Ha, ha, ha ! That sounds well ! 
You wish we were going to be farmers and 
merchants ? 

Louise. No, I don't mean that, literally ; 
but I wish the spirit of it were true. 

Madge (entering). What's that you 
wish were true? 

Kate. Good, Madge! I'm glad you're 
here. Come and sit down, and hear what 
our future class-poet is singing about. 

Louise. None of your nonsense, Kate ! 
I'm in dead earnest ; I mean every word I 
say; I can't say half I feel on the subject! 

Madge. What's up now? More fun? 
I am in for that ! Was just wishing I could 
hear of some good news to drive dull care 
away. 

Kate. Anything but fun. We are go- 
ing to have a sermon. We have already 
had the text. 

Louise. I'll tell you, Madge: I have 
been turning it over in my mind lately, how 
we girls are going to employ our time when 



we get through school. You know I have 
four brothers — 

Madge. Yes, I know that. 

Kate. Of course! Madge always finds 
out, somehow or other, how many brothers 
any of us girls have. But go on with your 
story, Louise. I'll try to hold my tongue 
for five seconds. 

Louise. How many seconds? 

Kate puts her finger on her lips, and holds 

up iive fingers, trying to look prim 

and sober. 

Louise. As I was saying, I have four 
brothers, who are all studying; and when 
we are at home together at vacation, I hear 
them discussing with the utmost eagerness 
what each shall do in life. Now, I have been 
with my brothers so much all my life, shar- 
ing their sports, in-doors and out, that I 
feel quite out in the cold when they get to 
talking about their future. I must say I 
wasn't much flattered the other day when I 
heard Will say, "What a bother it is, try- 
ing to find the right thing to do! Now, 
girls don't have such a time. All they 
have to think of when they leave school is, 
what shall be the color of their next dress." 

Kate. I hope you don't object to a girl's 
giving attention to her dress. [Looking 
over her shoulder with satisfaction at her 
own showy, zvell-Htting basque. ] 

Louise. O no ! of course not. But dress 
is not everything. 

Kate. Dress is a good deal, let me tell 
you that ! I'll wager I could make a better 
impression on your brothers, or any other 
young gentlemen, if I had on a stylish 
dress. 

Madge. That's so. 

Louise. I wouldn't give a fig for any 
man who judged a girl by her dress alone ! 

Madge. Nor I. One of the jolliest times 



216 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



I ever had in my life — when we were at 
the beach, you know — was one day when I 
had gone with Hal and Herbert on a fish- 
ing-scrape; had on a short dress, jacket 
to match, big rubber boots, and a great sun- 
hat that looked like a Chinese umbrella. 
You, Kate, wouldn't dare to go in such a 

ri g- 

Louise. I don't see anything particu- 
larly jolly in that. 

Kate. Ah ! she don't tell the whole story. 
Some of Hal's college friends came along — 
where's my fan? — only half a dozen, I be- 
lieve; three out of the six were — where's 
my smelling-bottle? — mortally wounded by 
Cupid's darts. 

Madge. How absurd you are, Kate! 

Kate. It is the solemn truth ! [Looking 
very wise.] One will never be seen on this 
mundane sphere again. The other two are 
still lingering along, but these ( Madge gets 
up and tries to stuff her handkerchief in 
Kate's mouth) will soon be (struggling 
with Madge) no more. Their epitaph will 
be — "Died of — a big pair of rubber boots !" 
[The girls all laugh.] 

Louise. O Kate, you always remind me 
of a champagne bottle — full of sparkle and 
effervescence. But, seriously, there is 
something quite captivating in seeing a girl 
brave the elements in pursuit of health and 
fun. Suppose Madge had worn a long trail 
down over the rocks and into the fishing- 
wherry; don't you believe those same fel- 
lows would have laughed at her? My 
brothers would. 

Madge. I don't care that (snapping her 
fingers) whether a man laughs at me or 
not! When I'm in for a good time, don't 
bring me any of your trails and flounces ! I 
hate long dresses, unless I am off for a 
horseback ride; and even then I wish I 
could cut off about so much (measuring 
half a yard with her hands). 



Susan enters. 

Louise. We are wandering from our 
subject somewhat. Here comes Susan 
Easy; let's ask her opinion. Susan, what 
are you going to do when you leave school ?, 

Susan. Do? I'm sure I don't know — 
never asked myself. I suppose I shall do 
as other girls do: stay at home, when I 
am not away visiting; read, and write to 
my friends; practice a little; go to the 
opera. Won't it be jolly to have no more 
compositions to write? 

' Kate. I don't dread compositions very 
much. 

Susan. You don't. They are the bug- 
bear of my life. 

Madge. Louise, you have made me a 
little curious. I want to know what you 
are going to do. 

Louise. That is just what I don't know. 
Wish from the bottom of my heart, I 
did. 

Kate. How absurd you are, Louise. 
You know I am crazy to have you go to 
Washington with me and spend the winter. 

Louise. Yes, you would be very proud 
of me and my gay outfit of three or four 
dresses, wouldn't you, Kate? — you with 
your splendid wardrobe, fresh from Paris. 
Say, Kate, be honest, and tell me if you 
should look forward now with quite so 
much zest to a winter in Washington, if 
you were to have no elegant dresses to 
display? Let me see; how many dozen 
have you ordered from Paris? 

Kate (a little touched). I won't tell 
you, because you have hurt me. Just as if 
I should stop to ask how many yards of 
silk or cashmere you had in your trunk, 
if I could only have your own dear self? 

Louise. Good ! good ! I am glad I have 
brought you to the point at last. You have 
acknowledged now that dress is not every- 
thing. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



211 



Madge. Yes, she has owned up hand- 
somely. 

Susan (to Louise). You are one of the 
queerest girls I ever knew. Guess / 
shouldn't have to be asked twice to spend 
the winter in Washington! 

Louise. I should enjoy going there, — 
hope I shall some time; but I have a ques- 
tion or two to settle first. I can't enjoy 
myself anywhere till I know what I ought 
to do, when we leave these dear rooms. 
Kate, you don't suspect it, but I am quite 
as much exercised about you as about my- 
self. Now, you have splendid talents. 
[Kate bows mockingly.] Your father has 
spent a small fortune on your education. It 
is a wicked shame for you to be so in- 
different as to what you ought to do with 
your acquirements. You'll never rest con- 
tent to simply dress and flirt; you know 
you won't. 

Susan. Perhaps she'll get married. 

Louise. That's all true. I hope she will 
some time. But in the meanwhile what is 
she to do, to think of? I don't know why 
girls should sit down and wait for mar- 
riage any more than their brothers. Any 
sensible man would think better of a girl if 
she exercised her faculties in some way 
helpful to society, than if she let them die 
out for want of use. 

Madge. So I say. Here comes Lizzie 
Helpful. She never talks much with us 
girls. I don't like to ask her about herself. 
Lizzie enters. 

Louise. I had just as lief. I will be 
thankful to any one to show me the truth. 
Lizzie, we are talking about what we shall 
do when we leave school. What are you 
going to do? Are you anxious to have 
school close? 

Lizzie. Were I to consult my inclina- 
tions, I might stay here and study always ; 
but I have others beside myself to think of. 



Perhaps you do not know that I have lost 
my father. My mother's income is small. 
I have several brothers and sisters younger 
than myself. Of course I must support my- 
self and help support them. I am in hopes 
to help one of my brothers through college. 

Susan. O dear ! what a life of drudgery. 
Don't you hate to teach ? 

Lizzie. Not at all. At least I do not 
since I hope to accomplish so much by it. 
I should be very glad if I could be sure of 
a paying school as soon as I leave here. 
My little sisters might come to me to be 
taught, and this would relieve mother of a 
great deal of anxiety on their account. 
They are bright, wide-awake girls, and 
mother could never afford to spend as much 
for their education as she has for mine. 

Louise (extending her hand to Lizzie). 
You are a lucky girl. I envy you. I wish 
every one of us could be as worthy of a 
diploma as you are. 

Miss Leslie (enters, smiling). Girls, I 
hope you will forgive me ; but being in the 
next room, and the door being open, I could 
not avoid hearing your conversation ; and I 
assure you the most of it has given me 
pleasure. You were speaking of Lizzie 
Helpful just now, and I wanted to call your 
attention to one fact that you may not have 
noticed. As Lizzie has had an object in 
studying, an aim in life, she has never been 
so perplexed by the difficulties in her four 
years' course as some of you have. Com- 
positions, for instance, were at first quite 
distasteful to her, as was algebra; but she 
said to herself, I must become acquainted 
with these studies, or I cannot teach them 
to others. Hence she readily overcame her 
dislike to them. 

I hope you will never forget your talk 
of to-day, girls. Think it over, and get 
some good out of it. I could have no 
greater happiness than to be sure my pupils 



218 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



will all make the highest use of what they 
have learned here. I hope to hear some 
day that Kate is an authoress, — writing 
books that will do good in the world. 

Kate (eagerly). Do you think I ever 
could ? 

Miss L. Madge will, I trust, teach gym- 
nastics, and give lessons in hygiene. Susan 
will, I am sure, be a good little housekeeper 
for her mother, and keep her father's ac- 
counts. You are very quick at figures (to 
Susan). 

Louise (rising). And I? 

Miss L. (putting her hand on Louise's 
head and thinking a moment). For you, 
dear child, I cannot seem to mark out a 
course. But you are thoroughly in earnest 
as to what is your duty. Heaven gives to 
those who seek. There will be a way of 
usefulness opened to you, I have no doubt. 
A little girl enters, bringing a note to Miss 
L., who takes it and reads it to herself. 

Miss L. (smiling). This is a note that 
will interest you, girls. [Reads.] 

"Dear Miss Leslie: We are making 
preparations to leave for Europe, with our 
little daughters. I am exceedingly anxious 



to find a young lady to accompany us who 
shall be at once companionable to my wife, 
and competent to educate my little girls. 
She must be earnest and practical, desirous 
not only to be good, but to do good. If 
you know of any such young lady among 
your pupils who would like the situation, 
please answer by return mail, and oblige, 
"Yours truly, 

"Henry B. Claflin." 

Kate. Mr. Claflin! I know him well. 
He has one of the most delightful families 
I ever met. I shouldn't object to traveling 
to Europe with them myself. 

Madge. I don't know who would. 

Susan. I am dying to go to Europe. 

Miss L. Louise, you have not had to 
wait very long for a chance to make your- 
self useful. I feel that this opportunity 
belongs to you, if you will take it. 

Louise. I should like to go, above all 
things. I will write to my parents at once. 
[Bell rings.] 

Kate. There is the bell for recitation. 

Madge. Yes, we must hurry, or we shall 
all be late. [Exeunt. 



%0* t<5* t<7* 



FOX AND GEESE. 



Characters. 
Mother Goose, 
Two Young Geese, 
Fox. 

Background — Brown muslin curtain. 
Costume — Full white muslin cloaks with 

hoods. Yellow stockings. 
Mother Goose in the chair. Could be 

dressed as in the engraving. 
Mother Goose. 

COME, children dear, and listen to me, 
I'm feeble and old, as you can see, 
And soon away from this world of woe, 



Your poor, old mother must go, go, go! 

[Shakes her head.] 
Now, when I am gone, you must not fret, 
Nor my good advice must you e'er forget. 
Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 
[Enter Fox unseen.] 
Remember that when you pass him by. 

[Shakes her fingers.] 
And, children dear, whatever you do, 
Never listen to him when he speaks to you ! 
And stay you at home when the hour is 

late, 
Or sad, sad indeed will be your fate. 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



219 



Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 
Remember that when I die, die, die ! 

[Young geese kneel beside her.] 

First Young Goose. 
Oh, mother dear, we will e'er be true, 
When the fox is near we will think of you. 

Second Young Goose. 
And though we may believe he is nice, 
We'll be sure to remember your good ad- 
vice; 
And chance we to meet him, whenever the 

day, 
We'll turn our faces the other way. 

Both Young Geese (in chorus). 
And when night comes we will never roam, 
But think of the sly fox, and stay at home. 

[Rise hand in hand and repeat.] 
Mother Goose. 
Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly, 
Remember that when I die, die, die ! [Exit. 
Scene II. 

First Young Goose. 
Come, take a walk, come, sister dear, 
See ! overhead the moon shines clear ; 
And, if our way the fox should pass, 
We'll hide us down in some thick grass ; 
And, when he's gone, we'll hasten home — 
Don't be a coward, sister, come ! 
Second Young Goose. 
Oh, sister dear, I should love to go; 
But he, the old fox, is sly, you know. 

First Young Goose. 
What if he is ! we are not afraid ; 
We'll show him that we geese are made 
Of something more than feathers. Come ! 
We'll go not very far from home. 
They walk back and forth, hand in hand — 
meet Fox face to face. Fox in brown 

fur cloak and hood. 

Fox. 

Good evening, oh, good evening ! How d'ye 

do? 
Two charming little maids like you 
Should never walk alone. 



I see, my dears, you're really quite afraid 

of me. 
I'm not a handsome fellow, that I own, 
And if you bid me, I'll go my way alone. 
But come, my dears, I know you will — 
Come walk with me to yonder moonlit hill ; 
I'll show you where the vine's rich clusters 

grow ; 
And you shall feast upon them — will you 

go? 
[Aside.] 
I ask these silly geese on grapes to sup, 
But when I get them safe, I'll eat them up ! 
[Geese walk off, hand in hand, with Fox.] 
Scene III. 
A pen made with chairs, Young Geese 
kneeling within. 
Young Geese (in chorus). 
Oh, please let us out, kind sir, please do. 
And whatever you ask we will do for you. 

[Repeat.] 

Fox (with contempt.) 
What! let you out, now that I've got you 

in; 
Why, my liitle dears, that would be a sin? 
If you had been to your mother true, 
You'd have shunned the trap I laid for you. 
But now you are here, please don't blame 

me, 
It's all your own fault, as you can see. 
Young geese are silly, and the fox is sly. 
Did you think of that when I passed you 

by? 
And you listened to me when I spoke to 

you, 
Is that what your mother advised you to 

do? 
Oh, no! my dears, you may cackle and 

squeal, 
But you're here to make me a luscious 

meal. 
Good sense is but folly when it comes too 

late ! 



220 



MODERN DIALOGUES AND PLAYS. 



And a goose must expect but a goose's 

fate ! 
So, to-night you may sup on regret and 

tears, 
To-morrow (smacks his lips) — good night, 

pleasant dreams, my pretty 

dears ! 



[Aside.] 
I might have said more, but what's the use, 
Of talking good sense to a silly young 

goose ; 
Young geese will be silly, and the fox is sly, 
Remember that, kind friends, good-bye! 

good-bye ! 




Alarm 



This department includes selections that afford the reader opportunities for the full and 
varied display of dramatic and oratorical powers. 

t&r1 fcT* t&& 

BEN HUR'S CHARIOT RACE. 



THE trumpet sounded short and sharp. 
The starfers, one for each chariot, 
leaped down, ready to give assistance if 
any of the fours proved unmanageable. 
Again the trumpet blew, and simultane- 
ously the gate-keepers threw the stalls 
open. Forth from each stall, like missiles 
in a volley from so many great guns, 
rushed the six contesting fours — the Cor- 
inthian's, Messala's, the Athenian's, the 
Byzantine's, the Sidonian's, and Ben- 
Hur's — and the vast assemblage rose and, 
leaping upon the benches, filled the circus 
with yells and screams. 

The competitors were under view from 
nearly every part of the circus, yet the race 
was not begun ; they had first to make suc- 
cessfully the chalked line, stretched for the 
purpose of equalizing the start. If it were 
dashed upon, discomfiture of man and 
horses might occur; on the other hand, to 
approach it timidly was to incur the hazard 
of being thrown behind in the beginning of 
the race — a certain loss of the great advan- 
tage of being next the wall on the inner line 
of the course. 

Each driver looked first for the rope, 
then for the coveted inner line. With all 
six aiming at the same point and speeding 
furiously, a collision seemed inevitable. 
Quick the eye, steady the hand, unerring 
the judgment required. The fours neared 
the rope together. Ben-Hur was on the 



extreme left of the six. At Messala, who 
was more than an antagonist to him, he 
gave one searching look, and saw the soul 
of the man, cunning, cruel, desperate, in a 
tension of watchfulness and fierce resolve. 
In that brief instant all his former rela- 
tions with Messala came before him. 
First, happy childhood, when, loving and 
beloved, they played together. Then, 
manhood that brought a change in Messala, 
and the Roman's inborn contempt of Jews 
asserted itself and broke the friendship. 
Then the bitter day, when, by the accidental 
falling of a loose tile, the Roman procurator 
was nearly killed, and he, Ben-Hur, was 
accused of willfully throwing the missile. 
One word from Messala would have saved 
the family from ruin, but the word was not 
spoken. Nay, more, it was Messala that 
urged on the Roman authorities and pre- 
vented even a fair trial of the case. It was 
Messala's influence that had banished him 
to the galleys for life, that had consigned 
his mother and sister to an uncertain fate, 
whose very uncertainty was more torture 
than their certain death would have been. 
It was Messala that had stolen his property 
and with it had bought the silence of the 
authorities on the cruel deeds; and was it 
not money that belonged to the House of 
Hur that Messala was betting with in this 
very race? Was it human nature to resist 
an opportunity for vengeance like this? 



221 



222 



DRAMATIC HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



No. At whatever cost he would humble 
his enemy. 

He saw that Messala's rush would, if 
there was no collision, and the rope fell, 
give him the wall. Therefore, he yielded it 
for the time. Just then the trumpeter 
blew a signal. The judges dropped the 
rope. And not an instant too soon, for the 
hoof of one of Messala's horses struck it 
as it fell. The Roman shook out his long 
lash, loosed the reins, leaned forward, and 
with a triumphant shout took the wall. 

"Jove with us ! Jove with us !" yelled the 
Roman faction, in a frenzy of delight. 

"Jove with us!" screamed a young noble- 
man. 

"He wins! Jove with us!" answered his 
associates. 

Messala having passed, the Corinthian 
was the only contestant on the Athenian's 
right, and to his side he tried to turn his 
four; but the wheel of the Byzantine, who 
was next on the left, struck the tail-piece 
of his chariot, knocking his feet from under 
him. There was a crash, a scream of rage 
and fear, and the unfortunate Athenian fell 
under the hoofs of his own steeds. San- 
ballat, a friend of Ben-Hur, turned to a 
group of Roman noblemen. 

"A hundred sestertii on the Jew!" he 
cried. 

"Taken!" answered one of the group. 

"Another hundred on the Jew!" shouted 
Sanballat. Nobody appeared to hear him. 
The situation below was too absorbing, 
and they were too busy shouting, "Messala! 
Messala! Jove with us!" 

While the spectators were shivering at 
the Athenian's mishap, and the Sidonian, 
Byzantine, and Corinthian were striving to 
avoid involvement in the ruin, Ben-Hur 
drew hea*d to the right, and, with all the 
speed of his Arabs, darted across the trails 
of his opponents, and took the course neck 



and neck with Messala, though on the out- 
side. And now, racing together, side by 
side, a narrow interval between them, the 
two neared the second goal. Making the 
turn here was considered the most telling 
test of a charioteer. A hush fell over the 
circus. Then, it would seem, Messala ob- 
served Ben-Hur and recognized him, and 
at once the audacity of the man flamed out. 

"Down, Eros! up, Mars!" he shouted, 
whirling his lash. "Down, Eros! up, Mars!" 
he repeated, and gave the Arab steeds of 
Ben-Hur a cut, the like of»which they had 
never known. 

The blow was seen in every quarter. The 
silence deepened and the boldest held his 
breath. The affrighted four sprang for- 
ward as with one impulse, and forward 
leaped the car. The car trembled with a 
dizzy lurch, but Ben-Hur kept his place 
and gave the horses free rein, and called to 
them in a soothing voice, trying to guide 
them round the dangerous turn, and before 
the fever of the people began to abate he 
had back the mastery. Not that only; on 
approaching the first goal he was again 
side by side with Messala, bearing with him 
the sympathy and admiration of every one 
not a Roman. Even Messala, with all his 
boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further. 

On whirled the cars. Three rounds were 
concluded; still Messala held the inside 
position; still Ben-Hur moved with him 
side by side; still the other competitors 
followed as before. The contest began to 
have the appearance of a double race, Mes- 
sala and Ben-Hur in the first, the Corin- 
thian, Sidonian, and Byzantine in the sec- 
ond. In the fifth round the Sidonian suc- 
ceeded in getting a place outside Ben-Hur, 
but lost it directly. The sixth round was 
entered upon without change of relative 
position. Gradually the speed had been 
quickened; men and beasts seemed to know 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



223 



alike that the final crisis was near. The in- 
terest, which from the beginning had 
centred chiefly in the struggle between the 
Roman and the Jew, with an intense gen- 
eral sympathy for the latter, was fast chang- 
ing to anxiety on his account. On all the 
benches the spectators bent forward, mo- 
tionless. 

"A hundred sestertii on the Jew!" cried 
Sanballat to the Romans. 

There was no reply. 

"A talent, or five talents, or ten; choose 



ye 



r 



"I will take thy sestertii," answered a 
Roman youth. 

"Do not so," interposed a friend. 

"Why?" 

"Messala has reached his utmost speed. 
See him lean over his chariot-rim, the reins 
loose as flying ribbons, then look at the 
Jew!" 

"By Hercules!" replied the youth, "I see, 
I see! If the gods help him not, he will be 
run away with by the Israelite. No; not 
yet! Look! Jove with us! Jove with us!" 

If it were true that Messala had gained 
his utmost speed, he was slowly but cer- 
tainly beginning to forge ahead. His horses 
were running with their heads low down; 
from the balcony their bodies appeared 
actually to skim the earth; their nostrils 
showed blood-red in expansion; their eyes 
seemed straining in their sockets. The 
good steeds were doing their best! How 
long could they keep the pace? It was but 
the commencement of the sixth round. On 
they dashed! As they neared the second 
goal, Ben-Hur turned in behind the Ro- 
man's car. The joy of the Messala faction 
reached its bound. They screamed, and 
howled, and tossed their colors, and San- 
ballat filled his tables with their wagers. 
Ben-Hur was hardly holding a place at the 
tail of his enemy's car. 



Along the home-stretch — sixth round — 
Messala leading, next him, pressing close, 
Ben-Hur. Thus to the first goal, and around 
it, Messala, fearful of losing his place, 
hugged the stony wall with perilous clasp ; 
a foot to the left and he had been dashed to 
pieces; yet when the turn was finished, no 
man, looking at the wheel-tracks of the 
two cars, could have said, "Here went Mes- 
sala, there the Jew." They left but one 
trace behind them. 

And now all the people drew a long 
breath, for the beginning of the end was at 
hand. First, the Sidonian gave the scourge 
to his four, and they dashed desperately 
forward, promising for an instant to go to 
the front. The effort ended in promise. 
Next, the Byzantine and the Corinthian 
each made the trial with like result, after 
which they were practically out of the race. 
Thereupon, all the factions except the Ro- 
mans joined hope in Ben-Hur, and openly 
indulged their feeling. 

"Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!" they shouted. 
"Speed thee, Jew!" 

"Take the wall now!" 

"On! loose the Arabs! Give them rein 
and scourge!" 

"Let him not have the turn on thee again. 
Now or never!" 

Either he did not hear, or could not do 
better, for half-way round the course and 
he was still following; at the second goal, 
even still no change. 

And now, to make the turn, Messala be- 
gan to draw in his left-hand steeds. His 
spirit was high; the Roman genius was still 
present. On the pillars, only six hundred 
feet away, were fame, fortune, promotion, 
and a triumph ineffably sweetened by hate, 
all in store for him! That moment Ben- 
Hur leaned forward over his Arabs and 
gave them the reins. Out flew the many- 
folded lash in his hand; over the backs of 



224 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



the startled steeds it writhed and hissed, 
and hissed and writhed again and again, 
and, though it fell not, there were both 
sting and menace in its quick report. In- 
stantly, not one, but the four as one, an- 
swered with a leap that landed them along- 
side the Roman's car. Messala, on the 
perilous edge of the goal, heard but dared 
not look to see what the awakening por- 
tended. The thousands on the benches un- 
derstood it all. They saw the four close 
outside Messala's outer wheel, Ben-Hur's 
inner wheel behind the other's cart. Then, 
with a cunning touch of the reins, Ben-Hur 
caught Messala's fragile wheel with the 
iron-shod point of his axle and crushed it. 
There was a crash loud enough to send a 
thrill through the circus, and out over the 
course a spray of shining white and yellow 
flinders flew. Down on its right side top- 
pled the bed of the Roman's chariot. 
There was a rebound, as of the axle hit- 
ting the hard earth! another and another; ( 

&$• t5* «<?* 

FIRE IN THE WOODS; or THE OLD SETTLER'S STORY. 

(From "Songs of the Great Dominion.") 



.then the car went to pieces, and Messala, 
entangled in the reins, pitched forward 
headlong, and lay still, crushed, and bleed- 
ing, and crippled for life. Above the noises 
of the race arose one voice, that of Ben- 
Hur: 

"On, Altair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! 
dost thou linger now? Good horse-oho, 
Aldebaran! I hear them singing in the 
tents. I hear the children singing, and the 
women singing of the stars, of Altair, 
Antares, Rigel, Aldebaran, victory — and 
the song will never end. Well done! On, 
Antares! The tribe is waiting for us, and 
the master is waiting! 'tis done! 'tis done! 
Ha! ha! We have overthrown the proud! 
The hand that smote us is in the dust! 
Ours the glory! Ha! ha! — steady! The 
work is done — soho! Rest!" 

And Ben-Hur turned the goal of victory 
and revenge, and the race was won ! — Gen. 
Lew Wallace. 



WHEN first I settled in the woods, 
There were no neighbors nigh, 
And scarce .a living thing, save wolves, 

And Molly, dear, and I. 
We had our troubles, ne'er a doubt, 

In those wild woods alone; 
But then sir, I was bound to have 
A homestead of my own. 

This was my field of battle, and 

The forest was my foe, 
And here I fought with ne'er a thought, 

Save "lay the giants low." 
I toiled in hope — got in a crop, 

And Molly watched the cattle; 
To keep those "breachy" steers away, 

She had a weary battle. 



The devil's dears were those two steers, — 

Ah, they were born fence-breakers! 
And sneaked all day, and watched their 
prey, 

Like any salt-sea wreckers. 
And gradually, as day by day, 

My crop grew golden yellow, 
My heart and hope grew with that crop, — 

I was a happy fellow. 

That crop would set me on my feet, 

And I'd have done with care; 
I built away, the livelong day, 

Such "castles in the air!" 
I'd beaten poverty at last, 

And, like a little boy 
When he has got his first new coat, 

I fairly leapt for joy. 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



I blush to think upon it yet 

That I was such a fool; 
But young folks must learn wisdom, sir, 

In old misfortune's school. 
One fatal night, I thought the wind 

Gave some unwonted sighs, 
Down through the swamp I heard a tramp 

Which took me by surprise. 

Is this an earthquake drawing near? 

The forest moans and shivers; 
And then I thought that I could hear 

The rushing of great rivers ; 
And while I looked and listened there, 

A herd of deer swept by, 
As from a close pursuing foe 

They madly seemed to fly. 

But still those sounds, in long, deep bounds, 

Like warning heralds came, 
And then I saw, with fear and awe, 

The heavens were all aflame. 
I knew the woods must be on fire, 

I trembled for my crop; 
As I stood there, in mute despair, 

It seem'd the death of hope. 

On, on it came, a sea of flame, 

In long deep rolls of thunder, 
And drawing near, it seem'd to tear 

The heavens and earth asunder! 
How those waves snored, and raged, and 
roared, 

And reared in wild commotion! 
On, on they came, like steeds of flame 

Upon a burning ocean. 

How they did snort, in fiendish sport, 

As at the great elms dashing; 
And how they tore 'mong hemlocks hoar, 

And through the pines went crashing; 
While serpents wound the trunks around, 

Their eyes like demons gleaming, 
And wrapped like thongs around the 
prongs, 

And to the crests went screaming! 



Ah ! how they swept, and madly leapt 

From shrinking spire to spire, 
'Mid hissing hail, and in their trail 

A waving lake of fire! 
Anon some whirlwind, all aflame, 

Growled in the ocean under; 
Then up would reel a fiery wheel 

And belch forth smoke and thunder! 

And it was all that we could do 

To save ourselves by flight, 
As from its track we madly flew, — 

Oh! 'twas an awful night! 
When all was past, I stood aghast, 

My crop and shanty gone, 
And blackened trunks 'mid smouldering 
chunks 

Like specters looking on! 

A host of skeletons they seemed, 

Amid the twilight dim, 
All standing there in their despair, 

With faces gaunt and grim; 
And I stood like a specter too, 

A ruined man was I, 
And nothing left, — what could I do 

But sit me down and cry? 

A heavy heart indeed was mine, 

For I was ruined wholly, 
And I gave way that awful day 

To moping melancholy; 
I lost my all, in field and stall, 

And nevermore would thrive, 
All save those steers, — the devil's dears 

Had saved themselves alive. 

Nor would I have a farm to-day 

Had it not been for Molly, 
She cheered me up, and charmed away 

My moping melancholy; 
She schemed and planned to keep the land, 

And cultivate it too ; 
And how I moiled, and strained, and toiled, 

And fought the battle through! 



22S 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



Yes, Molly played her part full well; 

She's plucky, every inch, sir! 
It seemed to me the "deil himsel' " 

Could not make Molly flinch, sir; 



We wrought and fought, until our star 

Got into the ascendant; 
At troubles past we smile at last, 

And now we're independent! 

— Alexander M'Lachlan. 



€,5* &5* *£* 



MACBETH TO THE DAGGER. 



IS this a dagger which I see before me, 
The handle toward my hand? Come, 
let me clutch thee — 
I have thee not; and yet I see thee still. 
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but 
A dagger of my mind? a false creation 
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? 
I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
As this which I draw. 

Thou marshal'st me the way that I was 

going; 
And such an instrument I was to use. 
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other 

senses, 
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still; 
And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of 

blood, 
Which was not so before. There's no such 

thing! — 
It is the bloody business, which informs 
Thus to mine eyes. 



Now o'er the one-half world, 

Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams 
abuse 

The curtained sleep: now witchcraft cele- 
brates 

Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered 
murder, 

Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf, 

Whose howl's his watch — thus with his 
stealthy pace, 

Toward his design moves like a ghost. 

Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, 

for fear r 
The very stones prate of my whereabout; 
And take the present horror from the time, 
Which now suits with it. While I threat, 

he lives — 
I go and it is done ; the bell invites me. 
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell 
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. 

— Shakespeare. 



^?* t&* &5* 



SEVEN AGES OF MAN. 



ALL the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely 
players : 
They have their exits and their entrances, 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being, seven ages. At first, the 

infant, 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 



Then the whining school-boy, with his 

satchel 
And shining morning face, creeping like a 

snail 
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, 
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a 

soldier, 



DRAMATIC HEADINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



229 



Full of strange oaths and bearded like a 

bard, 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in a 

quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's mouth. 



And then, the justice, 
In fair round belly, with good capon lined, 
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
Full of wise saws and modern instances : 
And so he plays his part. The sixth age 
shifts 



Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, 
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; 
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too 

wide 
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly 

voice, 
Turning again towards childish treble, 

pipes 
And whistles in his sound. Last seen of all, 
That ends this strange, eventful history, 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion; 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans 

everything. — Shakespeare, 



ten! %£* t£* 



HOW RUBY PLAYED. 



Jud Brownin, when visiting New York, goes 

description of 

WELL, sir, he had the blamedest, big- 
gest, catty-cornedest pianner you 
ever laid eyes on; somethin' like a dis- 
tracted billiard-table on three legs. The 
lid was hoisted, and mighty well it was. If 
it hadn't been, he'd a tore the entire inside 
clean out and scattered 'em to the four 
winds of heaven. 

Played well? You bet he did; but don't 
interrupt me. When he first sit down, he 
'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', 
and wisht he hadn't come. He tweedle- 
leedled a little on the treble, and twoodle- 
oodled some on the bass — just foolin' and 
boxin' the thing's jaws for bein' in the way. 
And I says to a man settin' next to me, 
says I, "What sort of fool playin' is that?" 
And he says, "Heish!" But presently his 
hands commenced chasin' one another up 
and down the keys like a parcel of rats 
scamperin' through a garret very swift. 
Parts of it was sweet, though, a*nd re- 
minded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' the 
wheel of a candy cage. 

"Now," I says to my neighbor, "he's 
showin' off. He thinks he's a doin' of it, 



to hear Rubinstein, and gives the following 
his playing. 

but he ain't got no idee, no plan of nothin'. 
If he'd play me a tune of some kind or 
other, I'd— 

But my neighbor says, "Heish," very 
impatiently. 

I was just about to get up and go home, 
bein' tired of that foolishness, when I heard 
a little bird wakin' up away off in the 
woods, and call sleepy-like to his mate, and 
I looked up and see that Ruby was begin- 
ning to take some interest in his business, 
and I sit down again. It was the peep of 
day. The light came faint from the east, 
the breezes blowed gentle and fresh; some 
more birds waked up in the orchard, then 
some more in the trees near the house, and 
all begun singin' together. People began 
to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. 
Just then the first beam of the sun fell 
upon the blossoms a little more, and it techt 
the roses on the bushes, and the next thing 
it was broad day ; the sun fairly blazed, the 
birds sung like they'd split their little 
throats; all the leaves was movin', and 
flashin' diamonds of dew, and the whole 
wide world was bright and happy as a king. 



230 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



Seemed to me like there was a good break- 
fast in every house in the land, and not a 
sick child or woman anywhere. It was a 
fine mornin'. 

And I says to my neighbor, "That's 
music, that is." 

But he glared at me like he'd like to cut 
my throat. 

Presently the wind turned; it began to 
thicken up, and a kind of gray mist came 
over things; I got low-spirited directly. 
Then a silver rain begun to fall. I could 
see the drops touch the ground; some 
flashed up like long pearl earrings, and the 
rest rolled away like round rubies. It was 
pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls 
gathered themselves into long strands and 
necklaces, and then they melted into thin 
silver streams, runnin' between golden 
gravels, and then the streams joined each 
other at the bottom of the hill, and made 
a brook that flowed silent, except that 
you could kinder see the music, specially 
when the bushes on the banks moved as 
the music went along down the valley. I 
could smell the flowers in the meadow. 
But the sun didn't shine, nor the birds 
sing; it was a foggy day, but not cold. 

The most curious thing was the little 
white angel boy, like you see in pictures, 
that run ahead of the music brook and led 
it on, and on, away out of the world, where 
no man ever was, certain. I could see that 
boy just as plain as I see you. Then the 
moonlight came, without any sunset, and 
shone on the graveyards where some few 
ghosts lifted their hands and went over the 
wall, and between the black, sharp-top 
trees, splendid marble houses rose up, with 
fine ladies in the lit-up windows, and men 
that loved 'em, but could never get a-nigh 
'em, who played on guitars under the trees, 
and made me that miserable I could have 
cried, because I wanted to love somebody, 



I don't know who, better than the men 
with the guitars did. 

Then the sun went down, it got dark, the 
wind moaned and wept like a lost child 
for its dead mother, and I could a got up 
then and there and preached a better ser- 
mon than any I ever listened to. There 
wasn't a thing in the world left to live 
for, not a blame thing, and yet I didn't 
want the music to stop one bit. It was 
happier to be miserable than to be happy 
without being miserable. I couldn't under- 
stand it. I hung my head and pulled out 
my handkerchief, and blowed my nose loud 
to keep me from cryin'. My eyes is weak, 
anyway. I didn't want anybody to be 
a-gazjn' at me a-snivelin', and it's nobody's 
business what I do with my nose. It's 
mine. But some several glared at me, mad 
as blazes. Then, all of a sudden, old Rubin 
changed his tune. He ripped out and he 
rared, he tipped and he tared, he pranced 
and he charged like the grand entry at a 
circus. 'Peared to me that all the gas in 
the house was turned on at once, things 
got so bright, and I Lilt up my head, ready 
to look any man in the face, and afraid of 
nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass band, 
and a big ball all a-goin' on at the same 
time. He lit into them keys like a thousand 
of brick; he gave 'em no rest day or night; 
he set every livin' joint in me a-goin'; and, 
not bein' able to stand it no longer, I 
jumped, sprang onto my seat, and jest 
hollered: 

"Go it, Rube!" 

Every blamed man, woman, and child in 
the house riz on me and shouted, "Put 
him out! Put him out!" 

"Put your great-grandmother's grizzly- 
gray-greenish cat into the middle of next 
month!" I says. "Tech me, if you dare! 
I paid my money, and you just come a-nigh 
me!" 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



231 



With that some several policemen run 
up, and I had to simmer down. But I 
could 'a' fit any fool that laid hands on 
me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or 
die. 

He had changed his tune again. He 
hop-light ladies and tip-toed fine from end 
to end of the key-board. He played soft 
and low and solemn. I heard the church- 
bells over the hills. The candles of heaven 
was lit, one by one I saw the stars rise. 
The great organ of eternity began to play 
from the world's end to the world's end, 
and all the angels went to prayers. * * * 
Then the music changed to water; full of 
feeling that couldn't be thought, and be- 
gan to drop — drip, drop — drip, drop, clear 
and sweet, like tears of joy falling into a 
lake of glory. It was sweeter than that. 
It was as sweet as a sweetheart sweetened 
with white sugar mixt with powdered sil- 
ver and seed diamonds. It was too sweet. 
I tell you the audience cheered. Rubin he 
kinder bowed like he wanted to say, "Much 
obleeged, but I'd rather you wouldn't in- 
terrup' me." 

He stopt a moment or two to ketch 
breath. Then he got mad. He run his 
fingers through his hair, he shoved up his 
sleeves, he opened his coat-tails a leetle 
further, he drug up his stool, he leaned 
over, and sir, he just went for that old 
pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her 
jaws, he pulled her nose, he pinched her 
ears, and he scratched her cheeks, until she 
fairly yelled. He knockt her down, and he 
stampt on her shameful. She bellowed, 
she bleated like a calf, she howled like a 
hound, she squealed like a pig, she shrieked 
like a rat, and then he wouldn't let her up. 
He ran a quarter-stretch down the low 
grounds of the base, till he got clean in the 
bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder 
galloping after thunder, through the hol- 



lows and caves of perdition, and then he 
fox-chased his right hand with his left till 
he got way out of the treble into the clouds, 
whar the notes was finer than the pints of 
cambric needles, and you couldn't hear 
nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then 
he wouldn't let the old pianner go. He 
for'ard two'd, he crost over first gentle- 
man, he chassade right and left, back to 
your places, he all hands'd aroun' ladies to 
the right, promenade all, in and out, here 
and there, back and forth, up and down, 
perpetual motion, double-twisted and 
turned and tacked and tangled into forty 
eleven thousand doublebow knots. 

By jinks! it was a mixtery. And then he 
wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fecht 
up his right wing, he fecht up his left 
wing, he fecht up his centre, he fecht up his 
reserves. He fired by file, he fired by 
platoons, by company, by regiments, and 
by brigades. He opened his cannon — siege 
guns down thar, Napoleons here, twelve- 
pounders yonder — big guns, little guns, 
middle-sized guns, round shot, shells, 
shrapnels, grape, canister, mortar, mines, 
and magazines, every livin' battery and 
bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house 
trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, 
the floor come up, the ceilin' come down, 
the sky split, the ground rokt — heavens 
and earth, creation, sweet potatoes, Moses, 
ninepences, glory, tenpenny nails, Samp- 
son in a 'simmon tree, Tump Tompson in 
a tumbler-cart, roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — 
ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle — raddle-addle- 
addle-addle — riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle — 
reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle — p-r-r-r-r-r-lang ! 
Bang!!!! lang! per-lang! p-r-r-r-r-r! 
Bang!!! 

With that bang! he lifted himself bodily 
into the air, and he come down with his 
knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his el- 
bows, and his nose, striking every single, 



232 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



solitary key on the pianner at the same 
time. The thing* busted, and went off into 
seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thou- 
sand five hundred and forty-two hemi- 
demi-semi-quivers, and I know'd no mo'. 
When I come to, I were under ground 
about twenty foot, in a place they call 
Oyster Bay, a-treatin' a Yankee that I 



never laid eyes on before, and never expect 
to again. Day was br'akin' by the time I 
got to the St. Nicholas Hotel, and I pledge 
you my word I did not know my name. 
The man asked me the number of my 
room, and I told him, "Hot music on the 
half-shell for two!" 



5(5* e5* *£* 

OTHELLO'S APOLOGY. 



M 



OST potent, grave and reverend 
seigniors : 

My very noble, and approved good master; 
That I have ta'en away this old man's 

daughter, 
It is most true; true, I have married her: 
The very head and front of my offending 
Hath this extent; no more. 

Rude am I in speech, 
And little blessed with the set phrase of 

peace : 
For since these arms of mine had seven 

years' pith, 
Till now some nine months wasted, they 

have used 
Their dearest action in the tented field; 
And little of this great world can I speak, 
More than pertains to feats of broils and 

battle ; 
And therefore, little shall I grace my cause, 
In speaking of myself. 

Yet, by your patience, 
I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver, 
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, 

what charms, 
What conjuration, and what mighty 

magic — 
For such proceedings I am charged 

withal — 
I won his daughter with. 



Her father loved me; oft invited me; 

Still questioned me the story of my life, 

From year to year: the battles, sieges, for- 
tunes, 

That I had past. 

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish days, 

To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 

Wherein I spake of most disastrous 
chances; 

Of moving accidents by flood and field; 

Of hairbreadth 'scapes, in the imminent 
deadly breach; 

Of being taken by the insolent foe, 

And sold to slavery; of my redemption 
thence, 

And with it all my travel's history. 

All these to hear, 

Would Desdemona seriously incline; 

But still the house affairs would draw her 
thence, 

Which ever as she could with haste 
despatch, 

She'd come again, and with a greedy ear, 

Devour up my discourse. Which I observ- 
ing, 

Took once a pliant hour, and found good 
means 

To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 

That I would all my pilgrimage dilate; 

Whereof my parcels, she had something 
heard, 

But not distinctively. 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



233 



I did consent; 
And often did beguile her of her tears, 
When I did speak of some distressful 

stroke, 
That by my youth suffered. My story being 

done, 
She gave me for my pains, a world of sighs. 
She swore in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas 

passing strange;. 
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful; 
She wished she had not heard it; yet she 

wished 
That heaven had made her such a man. 



She thanked me, 
And bade me, if I had a friend who loved 

her, 
I should but teach him how to tell my 

story, 
And that would woo her. On this hint I 

spake; 
She loved me for the dangers I had passed; 
And I loved her, that she did pity them. 
This is the only witchcraft which I've used. 

— Shakespeare. 



t&* t<$* «<5* 



CASSIUS AGAINST CAESAR. 



HONOR is the subject of my story, 
I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as myself. 
I was born as free as Caesar; so were you; 
We have both fed as well; and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 

For, once upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tiber, chafing with its shores, 
Caesar says to me — "Barest thou, Cassius, 

now 
Leap in with me, into this angry flood, 
And swim to yonder point?" — upon the 

word, 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
And bade him follow; so, indeed he did. 
The torrent roared, and we did buffet it; 
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside, 
And stemming it, with hearts of contro- 
versy. 
But ere we could arrive the point proposed, 
Caesar cried — "Help me, Cassius, or I 
sink." 

I, as yEneas, our great ancestor, 
Did from the flames of Troy, upon his 
shoulder 



The old Anchises bear, so, from the 

waves of Tiber 
Did I the tired Caesar; and this man 
Is now become a god; and Cassius is 
A wretched creature, and must bend his 

body, 
If Caesar carelessly but nod to him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain, 
And when the fit was on him, I did mark 
How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did 

shake; 
His coward lips did from their color fly; 
And that same eye whose bend doth awe 

the world, 
Did lose its luster; I did hear him groan, 
Aye, and that tongue of his, that bade the 

Romans 
Mark him, and write his speeches in their 

books, 
"Alas!" it cried, "give me some drink, 

Titinius." 

Ye gods! it doth amaze me, 
A man of such a feeble temper should 
So get the start of the majestic world, 
And bear the palm alone. 
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow 
world, 



234 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



Like a Colossus, and we petty men, 
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about, 
To find ourselves dishonorable graves. 

Men, at some time, are masters of their 

fates : 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus and Caesar! What should be in that 

Caesar? 
Why should that name be sounded more 

than yours? 
Write them together: yours is as fair a 

name; 
Sound them: it doth become the mouth as 

well; 
Weigh them: it is as heavy; conjure with 

'em: 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as 

Caesar. 

Now, in the name of all the gods at once, 



Upon what meats doth this our Caesar 

feed, 
That he hath grown so great? Age, thou 

art ashamed; 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble 

bloods. 
When went there by an age, since the great 

flood, 
But it was famed with more than with one 

man? 
When could they say, till now, that talked 

of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompassed but one 

man? 
Oh! you and I have heard our fathers say, 
There was a Brutus once, that would have 

brooked 
The infernal devil, to keep his state in 

Rome, 
As easily as a king. 

— Shakespeare. 



i6& t&& t&* 



PETERS' REPORT OF WEBSTER'S SPEECH. 



OLD Seth Peters once heard Daniel 
Webster deliver an oration at an 
agricultural fair way back in the forties. 
This oration made such an impression upon 
Seth that he has talked about it ever since. 
And every time he talks about it, he see 
new beauties in that speech. The oration 
that the God-like Daniel delivered grows 
more and more wonderful to him ; and so 
every time he describes it, he tells a new 
story more extravagant and grotesque than 
the last. I once heard him describe this 
speech, in a country store. This is the way 
he did it: 

"Want to hear 'bout Dan'l Webster's 
gret lectur' I heerd at the county fair, do 
ye? Don't blame ye. There ain't no man 
alive to-day who can throw language an' 
sling words like Dan'l could. There ain't 



no man now, I say, nor never wuz, nor 
never will be till eternity dies of ol' age. 

"Wall, the only time I ever heerd Dan'l 
wuz at our county fair w'en I wuz a young- 
ster. Lemme see, thet wuz goin' on fifty 
year ago nex' tater diggin'; but I got 
elerkunce 'nough thet day to las' me all the 
rest er my life. I hain't never heerd a 
speech since then. Dan'l sp'ilt me for any 
other kiner speech, lectur', sermon, pr'ar- 
meetin' an' everythin' else. Every speech I 
have ever heerd sense, falls ez flat on my 
ear ez a hunk er putty on a pine slab. They 
all soun' jes' ez if you hit a feather bed with 
a snow shovel. There ain't no ring, no roar, 
no rumble, no rush, no ring-tailed thunder 
to 'em, the way ther wuz to Dan'l's stuff. 
Dan'l, I tell you, wuz a six-foot-an'-half 
seraph with pants on; an' w'en he opened 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



235 



his mouth the music er the spheres stopped 
playin', fer nobody wanted to listen to sich 
fool, fol-de-rol music, w'en Dan'l opened up 
his flood-gates an' jest drowned the worl' 
with elerkunce. 

"I remember jes' ez if it wuz yes'day, 
w'en Dan'l riz up there on the ol' plank plat- 
form, bordered with punkins, at the ol' 
county fair. He riz an' riz, an' every time 
he riz, he let out another j'int, jes as you 
do in the new-fangled fishin' poles. Sez I 
to myself, 'He'll never git thro' risin' ;' but 
bimeby, after he had shot up inter the 
heavens a long ways, he suddenly stopped 
and stood there like Bunker Hill Monimunt 
in a garding er cabbages. 

"Dan'l warn't in no hurry 'bout be- 
ginnin'. He jest stood still, it seems to me, 
'bout half a nour, an' looked aroun' with 
them awful eyes of his'n. They seemed 
like two mighty souls lookin' out of the 
winder at a worl' thet wuz afraid of 'em. 
I jes' hung down my head an' wouldn't look 
at 'em. I knew they could look right inter 
me, an' through me, an' see what a miser- 
able little cuss I wuz. So Dan'l jes' stood 
an' looked at his audience until he froze 'em 
into their tracks. The Durham bull stopped 
blartin', an' jest' stood and gawped at Dan'l. 
The prize hog stopped eatin' his corn, an' 
there warn't a rooster crowed — they all 
knowed if they did they'd drop dead. Dan'l 
stood still so long I got awful nervous fer 
him. I wuz 'fraid he'd forgotten his speech. 
But bimeby, he opened his mouth an' words 
begun to rumble out like low thunder frum 
underneath the groun'. They come kinder 
slow at first, but every one on 'em wuz sent 
like a cannon ball, an' struck every man, 
woman an' child there right over the heart. 
Then they come faster, an' then we all 
knowed thet the universe wuz a big music 
box, an' Dan'l wuz turnin' the crank. The 
hull dictionary wuz a big gin filled with 



apple sass, honey, an' stewed quinces, an' 
Dan'l jest stood there jabbin' both hands 
into it way up to the elbow, and scatterin' 
the sweetness over the worl'. I jest threw 
out my arms an' legs like a frog in a mill- 
pond, an' swum through the ocean of sweet 
sass an' honey thet wuz sloshin' all about 
me. I div down to the bottom, an' brought 
up hundred thousand dollar pearls in my 
mouth, an' splashed about like a crazy luna- 
tic in a sea of glory. 

W'en Dan'l smiled it seemed ez if the sun 
hed been whitewashed with a mixture of 
melted gold, silver, jasper, saffire, emerald, 
chrysolite an' stuff, sich ez St. John seen on 
the foundations of the new Jerusalem; it 
seemed ez if the sun had been whitewashed 
with these things, an' then smiled on the 
earth, jest like a lovesick feller onto his best 
gal. W'en Dan'l frowned the sun grew ez 
black ez a black ink spot on a black cat 
hidin' in a coal bin on a dark night. Hope 
lef the worl' an' went on an everlastin' 
vacation ; the bottom tumbled outer natur', 
an' I jest opened my mouth an' bawled like 
a baby. An' I jest kep' on bawlin' until 
Dan'l smiled agin, wen I wuz so happy an' 
light thet I could hev walked on the air 
without bustin' through the crust, clear 
from here way up to the north star. 

"Wall, bimeby Dan'l got excited. He 
threw out his right han' an' pulled the 
mornin' star from the bosom of the sky ; he 
threw out his left han' an' snatched the 
trailin' robes from the sunset an' flapped 
them over the cattle shed. He threw up his 
head an' the sun dodged; he stamped his 
foot an' the earth trembled; and the prize 
hog give a gasp an' dropped dead. Dan'l's 
eyes now looked like two suns in two uni- 
verses ; and if he only shet them once, we 
knew that darkness would cover the face 
of the deep, an' the world would roam 
about in the dark parsture of the universe 



236 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



like a stray cow, an' git lost. Oh, them 
eyes ! them eyes ! they'll shine into my soul 
after the sun goes out, an' after the stars 
have dropped like loose buttons from the 
jacket of the sky. 

"But still Dan'l kep' on. Thet son of 
thunder stood there surrounded by punkins, 
and I verily believe the angels bent over the 
railin's of heaven an' listened to him ; an' I 
only wonder thet they didn't lose their bal- 
ance an' come a-fallin' down an' sprawl out 
like celestial lummuxes before his feet. 
They might hev for all I know. We 
shouldn't hev noticed 'em. We wouldn't 
hev paid any attention to an earthquake or 
an Odd Fell'rs purcession. If Gabrul had 



blown his trumpet right then an' there, an* 
tooted until he wuz red in the face, we 
wouldn't hev heerd it any more than we 
could hev heerd a watch tick in a biler fac- 
tory. Gabrul himself would hev dropped 
his horn an' stood an' listened to Dan'l. We 
couldn't see nothin' but Dan'l, we couldn't 
hear nothin' but Dan'l, an', — well, there 
warn't nothin' but Dan'l. He filled up the 
whole bushel basket of the universe an' then 
spilled over onto the floor. 

"W'en Dan'l stopped, I wanted to die ; an' 
I almost wish I hed, for I hain't heerd a de- 
cent speech sense his day, an' I never ex- 
pect to agin until I hear Dan'l spoutin' from 
the platforms of paradise." 



J* c* 



A RACE FOR LIFE. 



A GUN is heard at the dead of night — 
"Lifeboat ready!" 
And every man, to the signal true, 
Fights for place in the eager crew; 

"Now, lads! steady." 
First a glance at the shuddering foam, 
Now a look at the loving home, 
Then together, with bated breath, 
They launch their boat in the gulf of death. 

Over the breakers wild, 

Little they reck of weather, 

But tear their way 

Through blinding spray. 

Hear the skipper cheer and say: 

"Up with her, lads, and lift her! 

All together." 

They see the ship in a sudden flash, 

Sinking ever, 
And grip their oars with a deeper breath; 
Now it's come to a fight with death, 

Now or never! 
Fifty strokes, and they're at her side, 
If they live in the boiling tide, 
If they last through the awful strife. 



Ah, my lads, it's a race for life! 
Over the breakers wild, 
Little they reck of weather, 
But tear their way 
Through blinding spray. 
Hear the skipper cheer and say: 
"Up with her, lads, and lift her! 
All together!" 

And loving hearts are on the shore, 

Hoping, fearing; 
Till over the sea there comes a cheer, 
Then the click of the oars you hear, 

Homeward steering — 
Ne'er a thought of the danger past, ' 
Now the lads are on land at last; 
What's a storm to a gallant crew 
Who race for life, and who win it, too? 

Over the breakers wild, 

Little they reck of weather, 

But tear their way 

Through blinding spray. 

Hear the skipper cheer and say: 

"Up with her, lads, and lift her! 

All together!" 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



237 



WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 



Y 



OU'RE surprised that I ever should 
say so? 

Just wait till the reason I've given, 
Why I say I shan't care for the music, 
Unless there is whistling in heaven. 
Then you'll think it no very great wonder, 

Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, 
That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, 
Its music will not be complete. 

It was late in the autumn of '40, 

We had come from our far Eastern home 
Just in season to build us a cabin, 

Ere the cold of the winter should come; 
And we lived all the while in our wagon 

While husband was clearing the place 
W r here the house was to stand; and the 
clearing 

And building it took many days. 

So that our heads were scarce sheltered 

In under its roof, when our store 
Of provisions was almost exhausted, 

And husband must journey for more ; 
And the nearest place where he could get 
them 

Was yet such a distance away, 
That it forced him from home to be absent 

At least a whole night and a day. 

You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, 

And the nearest was more than a mile ; 
And we hadn't found time yet to know 
them, 

For we had been busy the while. 
And the man who had helped at the raising 

Just staid till the job was well done ; 
And as soon as the money was paid him, 

Had shouldered his axe, and had gone. 

Well, husband just kissed me and started, 
I could scarcely suppress a deep groan 

At the thought of remaining with baby 
So long in the house all alone ; 



For, my dear, I was childish and timid, 
And braver ones might well have feared, 

For the wild wolf was often heard howling, 
And savages sometimes appeared. 

But I smothered my grief and my terror 

Till husband was off on his ride, 
And then in my arms I took Josey, 

And all the day long sat and cried, 
As I thought of the long, dreary hours 

When the darkness of night should fall, 
And I was so utterly helpless, 

With no one in reach of my call. 

And when the night came with its terrors, 

To hide ev'ry ray of light, 
I hung up a quilt by the window, 

And almost dead with affright, 
I kneeled by the side of the cradle, 

Scarce daring to draw a full breath, 
Lest the baby should wake, and its crying 

Should bring us a horrible death. 

There I knelt until late in the evening, 

And scarcely an inch had I stirred, 
When suddenly, far in the distance, 

A sound as of whistling I heard ! 
I started up dreadfully frightened, 

For fear 'twas an Indian's call ; 
And then very soon I remembered 

The red man ne'er whistles at all. 

And when I was sure 'twas a white man, 

I thought were he coming for ill, 
He'd surely approach with more caution — ■ 

Would come without warning, and still. 
Then the sounds coming nearer and nearer, 

Took the form of a tune light and gay, 
And I knew I needn't fear evil, 

From one who could whistle that way. 

Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, 
Then came a peculiar dull thump, 

As if some one was heavily striking 
An axe in the top of a stump; 



238 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



And then in another brief moment, 
There came a light tap on the door, 

When quickly I undid the fast'ning, 
And in stepped a boy, and before 

There was either a question or answer, 

Or either had time to speak, 
I just threw my glad arms around him, 

And gave him a kiss on the cheek. 
Then I started back, scared at my boldness, 

But he only smiled at my fright, 
As he said, "I'm your neighbor's boy, Elick, 

Come to tarry with you through the 
night. 

"We saw your husband go eastward, 

And made up our minds where he'd gone, 
And I said to the rest of our people, 

That woman is there all alone. 
And I venture she's awfully lonesome, 

And though she may have no great fear 
I think she would feel a bit safer 

If only a boy were but near.' 

"So, taking my axe on my shoulder, 
For fear that a savage might stray 

Across my path and need scalping, 
I started right down this way ; 

And coming in sight of the cabin, 
And thinking to save you alarm, 



I whistled a tune, just to show you 
I didn't intend any harm. 

"And so here I am at your service ; 

But if you don't want me to stay, 
Why, all you need do is to say so, 

And should'ring my axe, I'll away." 
I dropped in a chair and near fainted, 

Just at the thought of his leaving me 
then, 
And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle 

As he said, "I guess I'll remain." 

And then I just sat there and told him 

How terribly frightened I'd been, 
How his face was to me the most welcome, 

Of any I ever had seen ; 
And then I lay down with the baby, 

And slept all the blessed night through, 
For I felt I was safe from all danger 

Near so brave a young fellow and true. 

So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, 

Since such a good reason I've given, 
Why I say I shan't care for the music, 

Unless there is whistling in heaven ? 
Yes, often I've said so in earnest, 

And now what I've said I repeat, 
That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, 

Its music will not be complete. 



t5* <5* ^9* 



THE ENGINE DRIVER'S STORY. 



WE were driving the down express- 
Will at the steam, I at the coal- 
Over the valleys and villages ! 
Over the marshes and coppices ! 
Over the river, deep and broad! 
Through the mountain, under the road ! 
Flying along, tearing along ! 
Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, 
Fifty tons she was, whole and sole ! 



I had been promoted to the express; 
I warrant you I was proud and gay> 
It was the evening that ended May, 
And the sky was a glory of tenderness. 
We were thundering down to a midland 

town; 
It makes no matter about the name — 
For we never stopped there, or anywhere 
For a dozen of miles on either side : 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



239 



So it's all the same — 

Just there you slide, 
With your steam shut off, and your brakes 

in hand, 
Down the steepest and longest grade in the 

land 
At a pace that I promise you is grand. 
We were just there with the express, 
When I caught sight of a muslin dress 
On the bank ahead ; and as we passed — 
You have no notion of how fast — 
A girl shrank back from our baleful blast. 

We were going a mile and a quarter a 
minute 
With vans and carriages down the incline, 
But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it, 
I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mine 
As the train went by, like a shot from a 
mortar, 
A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke ; 
And I mused for a minute, and then awoke, 
And she was behind us — a mile and a 
quarter. 

And the years went on, and the express 
Leaped in her black resistlessness, 

Evening by evening, England through. 
Will — God rest him! — was found, a mash 
Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash 

He made with a Christmas train at 
Crewe. 
It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, 

Or I shouldn't now be here alive ; 
But thereafter the five-o'clock out express 

Evening by evening I used to drive. 

And I often saw her, — that lady I mean, 
That I spoke of before. She often stood 
A-top o' that bank : it was pretty high — 
Say twenty feet, and backed by a wood. 

She would pick the daises out of the 
green 
To fling down at us as we went by. 
We had got to be friends, that girl and I, 



Though I was a rugged, stalwart chap, 
And she a lady ! I'd lift my cap, 
Evening by evening, when I'd spy 

That she was there, in the summer air, 
Watching the sun sink out of the sky. 

Oh, I didn't see her every night : 
Bless you! no; just now and then, 

And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. 
Then, one evening, I saw her again, 
Alone, as ever, but deadly pale, 
And down on the line, on the very rail, 
While a light, as of hell, from our wild 
wheels broke, 
Tearing down the slope with their devilish 

clamors, 
And deafening din, as of giant's hammers 
That smote in a whirlwind of dust and 
smoke 
All the instant or so that we sped to meet 

her. 
Never, oh, never, had she seemed sweeter! 
I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke 
Down that awful incline, and signaled the 

guard 
To put on his brakes at once, and hard — 
Though we couldn't have stopped. We 

tattered the rail 
Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. 

We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir, 
Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch 
Her arms to us ; — and the desperate wretch 

I pitied, comprehending her. 

So the brakes let off, and the steam full 

again, 
Sprang down on the lady the terrible 

train — 
She never flinched. We beat her down, 
And ran on through the lighted length of 

the town 
Before we could stop to see what was done. 
Oh, I've run over more than one ! 
Dozens of 'em, to be sure, but none 



24:0 



DRAMATIC READINGS AND RECITATIONS. 



That I pitied as I pitied her — 

If I could have stopped, with all the spur 

Of the train's weight on, and cannily — 

But it wouldn't do with a lad like me 
And she a lady — or had been — sir ? 
Who was she? Best say no more of her ! 
The world is hard ; but I'm her friend, 



Stanch, sir, — down to the world's end. 

It is a curl of her sunny hair 

Set in this locket that I wear. 

I picked it off the big wheel there. 

Time's up, Jack. Stand clear, sir. Yes ; 

We're going out with the express. 

— W. Wilkins. 



£& *&* *2& 



HENRY V. AT 

ONCE more unto the breach, dear 
friends, once more; 

Or close the wall up with our English 
dead. 

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man 

As modest stillness and humility; 

But when the blast of war blows in our 
ears, 

Then imitate the action of the tiger; 

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 

Disguise fair nature with hard-favored 
rage; 

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; 

Let it pry through the portage of the head 

Like the brass cannon; let the brow over- 
whelm it, 

As fearfully as doth a galled rock 

Overhang and jutty his confounded base, 

Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. 

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nos- 
tril wide, 

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every 
spirit 

To his full height. Now on, you noblest 
English, 



HARFLEUR. 

Whose blood is fetched from fathers of 
war-proof; 

Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, 

Have in these parts from morn to even 
fought, 

And sheathed their swords for lack of ar- 
gument: 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war! 

And you, good yeomen, 
Whose limbs are made in England, show 

us here 
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear 
That you are worth your breeding, which 

I doubt not: 
For there is none of you so mean and base 
That hath not noble luster in your eye; 
I see you stand like greyhounds in the 

slips, 
Straining upon the start: the game's a-foot; 
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge, 
Cry, Heaven for Harry, England, and St. 

George. 

— Shakespeare. 




^"V 



Treasure Trove-World Favorites 



This department includes those immortal writings that won favor throughout the world and 
are as popular to-day as when they were first written many years ago. 
They belong to "Auld Lang Syne," and are old acquaint- 
ances that shall never be forgot. 

^5* &5* C<7* 

PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S FAVORITE POEM. 

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath 

worn, 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the 

brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the 

grave. 



OH, why should the spirit of mortal be 
proud? 
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying 

cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the 

wave, 
He passes from life to his rest in the grave. 



The leaves of the oak and the willow shall 

fade, 
Be scattered around and together be laid; 
And the young and the old, and the low 

and the high, 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall 

die. 

The child that a mother attended and loved, 
The mother that infant's affection that 

proved, 
The husband that mother and infant that 

blessed, 
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of 

rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, 

in whose eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs 

are by; 
And the memory of those that loved her 

and praised, 
Are alike from the minds of the living 

erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath 
borne, 



The peasant whose lot was to sow and to 

reap, 
The herdsman who climbed with his goats 

to the steep, 
The beggar that wandered in search of his 

bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we 

tread. 

The saint that enjoyed the communion of 

Heaven, 
The sinner that dared to remain unfor- 

given, 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and 

just, 
Have quickly mingled their bones in the 

dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and 
the weed, 

That wither away to let others succeed; 

So the multitude come, even those we be- 
hold, 

To repeat every tale that hath often been 
told. 

For we are the same that our fathers have 
been; 



241 



242 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



We see the same sights that our fathers 
have seen, — 

We drink the same stream, and we feel the 
same sun, 

And we run the same course that our fath- 
ers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers 

would think; 
From the death we are shrinking from, they 

too would shrink; 
To the life we are clinging to, they too 

would cling; 
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on 

the wing. 

They loved, but their story we cannot un- 
fold; 

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty 
is cold; 

They grieved, but no wail from their slum- 
bers may come; 

They joyed, but the voice of their gladness 
is dumb. 



They died, — ay, they died; and we things 
that are now, 

Who walk on the turf that lies over their 
brow, 

Who make in their dwellings a transient 
abode, 

Meet the changes they met on their pil- 
grimage road. 

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and 

pain, 
Are mingled together like sunshine and 

rain; 
And the smile and the tear and the song 

and the dirge 
Still follow each other, like surge upon 

surge. 

Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of 

a breath, 
From the blossom of health to the paleness 

of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the 

shroud, — 
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be 

proud? 



t&& ^5* *^* 

THE EXILE OF ERIN 



THERE came to the beach a poor Exile 
of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and 
chill; 
For his country he sighed, when at twilight 
repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad de- 
votion, 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the 

ocean, 
Where once in the fire of his youthful 
emotion 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go 
bragh. 



"Sad is my fate," said the broken-hearted 
stranger, — 
"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can 
flee; 
But I have no refuge from famine and 
danger, 
A home and a country remain not to me. 
Never again in the green, sunny bowers 
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend 

the sweet hours, 
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven 
flowers, 
And strike to the numbers of Erin go 
bragh ! 




SHARING A SORROW. 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



245 



"Erin, my country ! though sad and for- 
saken, 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 
But, alas ! in ,a far foreign land I awaken, 
And sigh for the friends who can meet 
me no more! 
Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me 
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can 

chase me? 
Never again shall my brothers embrace 
me? 
They died to defend me, or live to de- 
plore ! 

"Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild 
wood? 
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? 
Where is the mother that looked on my 
childhood? 
And where is the bosom friend, dearer 
than all? 



Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by 
pleasure, 

Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure? 

Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without 
measure, 
But rapture and beauty they cannot re- 
call. 

"Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, 

One dying wish my lone bosom can 

draw: 

Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 

Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her 

motion, 
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the 

ocean! 
And thy harp-striking bard sings aloud 
with devotion, — 
Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!" 
— Thomas Campbell. 



<£* t$* 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 



UNDER a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp and black and long; 

His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat; 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell 
When the evening sun is low, 



And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 

Singing in Paradise. 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 



246 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing — 
Onward through life he goes; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close; 

Something attempted — something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 



& £ x 



JOHN ANDERSON. 



JOHN Anderson my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent 
Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snow; 
But blessings on your frosty pow; 
John Anderson my jo. 



John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 

— Robert Burns. 



*£& *&& c5* 



"ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER." 



BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time! 
in your flight, 
Make me a child again, just for to-night! 
Mother, come back from the echoless 

shore, 
Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my 

hair; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch 

keep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 

sleep! • 

Backward, flow backward, O swift tide of 

years! 
I am weary of toil, I am weary of tears ; 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 
Take them, and give me my childhood 

again! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away, 



Weary of sowing for others to" reap; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
sleep! 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, O mother! my heart calls for you! 
Many a summer the grass has grown 

green, 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between; 
Yet with strong yearning and passionate 

pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again; 
Come from the silence so long and so 

deep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 

sleep! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love like mother-love ever has shone. 
No other worship abides and endures 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours; 
None like a mother can charm away pain 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



247 



From the sorrowing soul and the world- 
weary brain; 

Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids 
creep ; 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
sleep! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted 

with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
Let it fall over my forehead to-night, 
Shielding my eyes from the flickering 

light; 
For oh! with its sunny-edged shadows 

once more, 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of 

yore; 



Lovingly, softly its bright billows sweep — 
Reck me to sleep, mother, rock me to 
sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother! the years have been 

long 
Since last I was hushed by your lullaby 

song; 
Sing them again, — to my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a 

dream ; 
Clasp to your arms in a loving embrace, 
With your soft, light lashes just sweeping 

my face, 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to 

sleep ! 

— Mrs. Elisabeth Akers. 



t£& %a* £& 

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 



HOW dear to this heart are the scenes 
of my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them to 
view! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
wildwood, 
And every loved spot which my infancy 
knew; 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill 
which stood by it, 
The bridge, and the rock where the 
cataract fell; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh 

it, 
And e'en the rude bucket which hung 

in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in 

the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treas- 
ure; 



For often, at noon, when returned from 
the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite 
pleasure, 
The purest and sweetest that nature can 
yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that 
were glowing! 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom 
it fell; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
flowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
the well; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the 
well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to 
receive it, 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my 
lips! 



248 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me 
to leave it, 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupi- 
ter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved 
situation, 
The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 



As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in 
the well; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in 
the well. 

— Samuel Woodworth. 






I'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've 
sat beneath the tree, 
Upon the school-house play-ground, that 

sheltered you and me ; 
But none were left to greet me, Tom; and 

few were left to know, 
Who played with us upon the green, some 
forty years ago. 

The grass is just as green, Tom; bare- 
footed boys at play 

Were sporting, just as we did then, with 
spirits just as gay. 

But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, 
which, coated o'er with snow, 

Afforded us a sliding-place, some forty 
years ago. 

The old school-house is altered now; the 
benches are replaced 

By new ones, very like the ones our pen- 
knives once defaced; 

But the same old bricks are in the wall, the 
bell swings to and fro; 

It's music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas 
forty years ago. 

The boys were playing some old game, be- 
neath that same old tree; 

I have forgot the name just now, — you've 
played the same with me, 

On that same spot; 'twas played with 
knives, by throwing so and so; 



FORTY YEARS AGO. 

The loser had a task to do, 
years ago. 



-there, forty 



The river's running just as still; the wil- 
lows on its side 

Are larger than they were, Tom; the 
stream appears less wide; 

But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, 
where once we played the beau, 

And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, 
— just forty years ago. 

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, 

close by the spreading beech, 
Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we 

could scarcely reach; 
And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear 

Tom, I started so, 
To see how sadly I am changed, since 

forty years ago. 

Near by that spring, upon old elm, you 

know I cut your name, 
Your sweetheart's put beneath it, Tom, and 

you did mine the same. 
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 

'twas dying sure but slow, 
Just as she died, whose name you cut, some 

forty years ago. 

My lids have long been dry, Torn, but tears 
came to my eyes; 



THE ABU RE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



249 



I thought of her I loved so well, those 

early broken ties. 
I visited the old church-yard, and took 

some flowers to strew 
Upon the graves of those we loved, some 

forty years ago. 



Some are in the church-yard laid, some 



sleep beneath the sea; 
But few are left of our old class, excepting 

you and me ; 
And when our time shall come, Tom, and 

we are called to go, 
I hope they'll lay us where we played, just 

forty years ago. 



s^* fe?* ^5* 



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 



1LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm- 
chair? 

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize; 

I've bedewed it with tears, and embraced 
it with sighs. 

Tis bound by a thousand bands to my 
heart; 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 

Would ye learn the spell? — a mother sat 
there ; 

And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 
The hallowed seat with listening ear; 
And gentle words that mother would give, 
To fit me to die and teach me to live. 
She told me shame would never betide, 
With truth for my creed and God for my 

guide; 
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer 
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 



I sat and watched her many a day 

When her eye grew dim and her locks were 

gray; 
And I almost worshiped her when she 

smiled, 
And turned from her Bible, to bless her 

child. 
Years rolled on; but the last one sped — 
My idol was shattered; my earth-star fled; 
I learned how much the heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair. 

Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow. 
'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she 

died ; 
And memory flows with lava tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
While the scalding drops start down my 

cheek; 
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 



ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEER" 



ROCKED in the cradle of the deep 
I lay me down in peace to sleep; 
Secure I rest upon the wave, 
For thou, O Lord, hast power to save. 
I know thou wilt not slight my call, 
For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall! 
And calm and peaceful is my sleep, 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 



And calm and peaceful is my sleep, 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 
And such the trust that still is mine, 
Tho' stormy winds sweep o'er the brine, 
Or tho' the tempests fiery breath 
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death, 
In ocean cave still safe with Thee, 
The germ of immortality! 



250 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



ROGER AND I. 



WE are two travelers, Roger and I. 
Roger's my dog; — come here, you 
scamp ! 
Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye! 
Over the table, — look out for the lamp, — 
The rogue is growing a little old: 

Five years we've tramped through wind 
and weather, 
And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 
And ate and drank — and starved to- 
gether. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! 
The paw he holds up there's been 
frozen,) 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 

(This out-door business is bad for 
strings,) 
Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the 
griddle, 
And Roger and I set up for kings ! 
****** 

Why not reform? That's easily said; 
But I've gone through such wretched 
treatment, 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 
And scarce remembering what meat 
meant, 
That my poor stomach's past reform; 
And there are times when, mad with 
thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 
To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think? 
At your age, sir, home, fortune and 
friends, 
A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink, — 
The same old story; you know how it 
ends. 



If you could have seen these classic fea- 
tures, — 
You needn't laugh sir; they were not 
then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures: 
I was one of your handsome men! 

If you have seen her, so fair and young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you 
wouldn't have guessed 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog! 

She's married since, — a parson's wife: 
'Twas better for her that we should 
part,— 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her? Once: I was weak and 
spent 
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped; 
But little she dreamed, as on she went, 
Who kissed the coin that her fingers 
dropped! 

You've set me to talking, sir; I'm sorry; 

It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
What do you care for a beggar's story? 

Is it amusing? you find it strange? 
I had a mother so proud of me! 

'Twas well she died before — Do you 
know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
This pain; then Roger and I will start. 

I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 
Aching thing, in place of a heart? 



THE AS V BE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



251 



He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if 
he could, 
No doubt, remembering things that 
were, — 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 
And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I'm better now; that glass was warming, — 
You rascal ; limber your lazy feet ! 



We must be fiddling and performing 
For supper and bed, or starve in the 
street. 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 
But soon we shall go where lodgings 
are free, 
And the sleepers need neither victuals or 
drink; — 
The sooner the better for Roger and me! 






BILL AND JOE. 



COME, dear old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from days gone 
by; 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright with morning dew, — 
The lusty days of long ago, 
When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail 
Proud as a cockrel's rainbow tail; 
And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare: 
To-day, O. friend, remember still 
That I am Joe, and you are Bill. 

You've won the great world's envied prize 
And grand you look in people's eyes. 
With H. O. N. and LL. D., 
In big brave letters, fair to see, — 
Your fist, old fellow, off they go ! — 
How are you, Bill; How are you, Joe? 

You've won the judge's ermined robe, 
You've taught your name to half the globe; 
You've sung mankind a deathless strain; 
You've made the dead past live again; 
The world may call you what it will, 
But you and I are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare, and say, 
"See those old buffers, bent and gray, — 



They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
Mad, poor old boys! That's what i 

means," — 
And shake their heads ; they little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe! 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame; 

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; 

A few swift years, and who can show 

Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? 

The weary idol takes his stand, 
Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 
While gaping thousands come and go, — 
How vain it seems, this empty show! 
Till all at once his pulses thrill — ■ 
Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!" 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears, 
In some sweet lull of harp and song 
For earth-born spirits none too long, 



252 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



Just whispering of the world below 
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? 

No matter: while our home is here, 
No sounding name is half so dear; 



When fade*s at length our lingering day, 
Who cares what pompous tombstones say? 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
Hie Jacet Joe. Hie Jacet Bill. 

— Oliver W. Holmes. 



%2& t&& t£& 



OVER THE RIVER. 



OVER the river, over the river — 
The river silent and deep — 
When the boats are moored on the shadow 
shore 
And the waves are rocked to sleep; 
When the mists so pale, like a bridal veil, 

Lie down on the limpid tide, 
I hear sweet sounds in the still night-time 

From the flowing river's side ; 
And the boat recedes from the earthly 
strand. 
Out o'er the liquid lea — 
Over the river, the deep dark river, 
My darlings have gone from me. 

Over the river, over the river, 

Once in summer time 
The boatman's call we faintly heard, 

Like a vesper's distant chime; 
And a being fair, with soft, dark hair 

Paused by the river's side, 
For the snowy boat with the golden oars 

That lay on the sleeping tide 
And the boatman's eyes gazed into hers, 

With their misty dreamlike hue — 
Over the river, the silent river 

She passed the shadows through. 



Over the river, over the river 

A few short moons ago 
Went a pale young bride with fair, slight 
form, 

And a brow as pure as snow; 
And music low, with a silvery flow, 

Swept down from the starry skies, 
As the shadows slept in her curling hair, 

And darkened her twilight eyes, 
Still the boat swept on to the spirit shore 

With a motion light and free — 
Over the river, the cold, dark river, 

My sister has gone from me. 

Over the river, over the river, 

When the echoes are asleep, 
I hear the dip of the golden oars, 

In the waters cold and deep; 
And the boatman's call, when the shad- 
ows fall, 

Floats out on the evening air, 
And the light winds kiss his marble brow, 

And play with his wavy hair ; 
And I hear the notes of an angel's harp, 

As they sweep o'er the liquid lea — 
Over the river, the peaceful river, 

They're calling — calling for me. 



o^* ^* t^* 



BEAUTIFUL ANNABEL LEE. 



IT was many and many years ago, 
In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived, whom you may 
know 
By the name of Annabel Lee; 



And this maiden she lived with no other 
thought 
Than to love, and be loved by me! 

I was a child, and she was a child, 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



253 



In this kingdom by the sea; 
But we loved with a love that was more 
than love, 
I and my Annabel Lee — 
With a love that the winged seraph of 
heaven 
Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea 
A wind blew out of a cloud chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven/ 

Went envying her and me, 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by 
night, 



Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than 
the love 

Of those who were older than we, 
Of many far wiser than we ; 

And neither the angels in heaven above, 
Nor the demons down under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bring- 
ing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the 
bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 
And so all night-time, I lie by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and 
my bride 
In the sepulchre there by the sea, 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



^* &5* *£& 



THE HURRICANE. 



LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh, 
I know thy breath in the burning 
sky! 
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 
For the coming of the hurricane! 

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, 

Through the boundless arch of heaven he 
sails, 

Silent and slow, and terribly strong, 

The mighty shadow is borne along, 

Like the dark eternity to come; 

While the world below, dismayed and 
dumb, 

Through the calm of the thick hot atmos- 
phere, 

Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 

They darken fast; and the golden blaze 



Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, 
And he sends through the shade a funeral 

ray — 
A glare that is neither night nor day, 
A beam that touches, with hues of death, 
The clouds above and the earth beneath. 
To its covert glides the silent bird, 
While the hurricane's distant voice is heard 
Uplifted among the mountains round, 
And the forests hear and answer the sound. 

He is come! he is come! do ye not behold 
His ample robes on the wind unrolled? 
Giant of air! we bid thee hail! 
How his gray skirts toss in the whirling 

gale; 
How his huge and writhing arms are bent 
To clasp the zone of the firmament, 



254 



TREASURE TROVE— WORLD FAVORITES. 



And fold at length, in their dark embrace, 
From mountain to mountain the visible 
space. 

Darker — still darker! the whirlwinds bear 
The dust of the plains to the middle air; 
And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
Of the chariot of God in the thunder- 
cloud ! 
You may trace its path by the flashes that 

start 
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, 
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 
And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 



What roar is that? — 'tis the rain that breaks 
In torrents away from the airy lakes, 
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 
And shedding a nameless horror round. 
Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, 

and skies, 
With the very clouds! — ye are lost to my 

eyes. 
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through 

space, 
A whirling ocean that fills the wall 
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. 
And I, cut off from the world, remain 
Alone with the terrible hurricane. 




Triumph 



The masterpieces of American eloquence and statesmanship are included in this department. 

The selections are particularly adapted to the anniversaries of our Great 

American Statesmen and to all patriotic holidays as well. 

McKINLEY'S EULOGY OF LINCOLN. 



IT is not difficult to place a correct esti- 
mate upon the character of Lincoln. 
He was the greatest man of his time, es- 
pecially approved of God for the work He 
gave him to do. 

"History abundantly proves his superior- 
ity as a leader, and establishes his constant 
reliance upon a higher power for guidance 
and support. 

"The tendency of this age is to exagger- 
ation, but of Lincoln certainly none have 
spoken more highly than those who knew 
him best. 

"The greatest names in American history 
are Washington and Lincoln. One is for- 
ever associated with the independence of 
the states and formation of the Federal 
Union, the other with the universal free- 
dom and preservation of that Union. 

"Washington enforced the Declaration of 
Independence as against England, Lincoln 
proclaimed its fulfillment, not only to a 
downtrodden race in America, but to all 
people, for all those who may seek the pro- 
tection of our flag. 

"These illustrious men achieved grander 
results for mankind within a single century 
— from 1775 to 1865 — than any other men 
ever accomplished in all the years since 
first the flight of time began. 

"Washington engaged in no ordinary 
revolution. With him it was not who should 
rule, but what should rule. He drew his 
sword, not for a change of rulers upon an 
established throne, but to establish a new 



government, which should acknowledge no 
throne but the tribune of the people. 

"Lincoln accepted war to save the Union, 
the safeguard of our liberties, and re-es- 
tablished it on 'indestructible foundations' 
as forever 'one and indivisible.' 

"To quote his own grand words: 

u 'Now, we are all contending that this 
nation, under God, shall have a new birth 
of freedom, and that the government of the 
people, by the people, for the people, shall 
not perish upon the earth.' 

"Each lived to accomplish his appointed 
task. Each received the unbounded grati- 
tude of the people of his time, and each is 
held in great and ever-increasing reverence 
by posterity. 

"The fame of each will never die. It will 
grow with the ages, because it is based 
upon imperishable service to humanity — 
not to the people of a single generation or 
country, but to the whole human family, 
wherever scattered, forever. 

"The present generation knows Wash- 
ington only from history, and by that alone 
can judge him. 

"Lincoln we know by history also; but 
thousands are still living who participated 
in the great events in which he was leader 
and master. 

"Many of his contemporaries survive 
him; some are here yet in almost every 
locality. So Lincoln is not far removed 
from us. 

"History has proclaimed them the two 



255 



256 



GREAT ORATIONS. 



greatest and best Americans. That verdict 
has not changed, and will not change, nor 
can we conceive how the historians of this 
or any age will ever determine what is so 
clearly a matter of pure personal opinion 
as to which of these noble men is entitled 
to greatest honor and homage from the 
people of America. 

"Says the gifted Henry Watterson, in a 
most beautiful, truthful and eloquent trib- 
ute to the great emancipator: 

:< 'Born as lowly as the Son of God, 
reared in penury and squalor, with no 
gleam of light nor fair surroundings, it was 
reserved for this strange being, late in life, 
without name or fame, or seeming prep- 
aration, to be snatched from obscurity, 
raised to supreme command at a supreme 
moment, and intrusted with the destiny of 
a nation. 

" 'Where did Shakspere get his genius ? 



Where did Mozart get his music? Whose 
hand smote the lyre of the Scottish plow- 
man and staid the life of the German 
priest? 

" 'God alone, and as surely as these were 
raised by God, inspired of God was Abra- 
ham Lincoln; and a thousand years hence 
no story, no tragedy, no epic poem will be 
filled with greater wonder than that which 
tells of his life and death. 

" 'If Lincoln was not inspired of God, 
then there is no such thing on earth as spe- 
cial providence or the interposition of di- 
vine power in the affairs of men.' 

"My fellow citizens, a noble manhood, 
nobly consecrated to man, never dies. 

"The martyr to liberty, the emancipator 
of a race, the savior of the only free gov- 
ernment among men, may be buried from 
human sight, but his deeds will live in 
human gratitude forever." 






LINCOLN'S ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG. 



FOUR score and seven years ago our 
■ fathers brought forth on this conti- 
nent a new nation, conceived in liberty and 
dedicated to the proposition that all men 
are created equal. 

Now we are engaged in a great civil 
war, testing whether that nation, or any 
nation so conceived and so dedicated, can 
long endure. We are met on a great bat- 
tlefield of that war. We have come to 
dedicate a portion of that field as a final 
resting place for those who here gave their 
lives that that nation might live. It is 
altogether fitting and proper that we should 
do this. 

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedi- 
cate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hal- 
low this ground. The brave men, living 
and dead, who struggled here, have conse- 



crated it far above our poor power to add 
or detract. The world will little note, nor 
long remember, what we say here, but it 
can never forget what they did here. It is 
for us, the living, rather to be dedicated 
here to the unfinished work which they 
who fought here have thus far so nobly 
advanced. It is rather for us to be here 
dedicated to the great task remaining be- 
fore us ; that from the same honored dead 
we take increased devotion to that cause for 
which they gave the last full measure of 
devotion; that we here highly resolve that 
these dead should not have died in vain; 
that this nation, under God, shall have a 
new birth of freedom, and that government 
of the people, by the people, for the people, 
shall not perish from the earth. 

— Abraham Lincoln, 



GREAT ORATIONS. 



257 



FROM BLAINE'S ORATION ON GARFIELD. 

(Delivered in the city of Washington, Monday, February 27th, 1882.) 



ON the morning of Saturday, July- 
second, the President was a con- 
tented and happy man — not in an ordinary 
degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly hap- 
py. On his way to the railroad station, to 
which he drove slowly, in conscious en- 
joyment of the beautiful morning, with an 
unwonted sense of leisure and keen antici- 
pation of pleasure, his talk was all in the 
grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that 
after four months of trial his administra- 
tion was strong in its grasp of affairs, 
strong in popular favor and destined to 
grow stronger; that grave difficulties con- 
fronting him at his inauguration had been 
safely passed; that trouble lay behind him 
and not before him; that he was soon to 
meet his wife whom he loved, now recov- 
ering from an illness which had but lately 
disquieted and at times almost unnerved 
him ; that he was going to his Alma Mater 
to renew the most cheerful associations of 
his young manhood and to exchange greet- 
ings with those whose deepening interest 
had followed <w y step of his upward 
progress from the day he entered upon his 
college course until he had attained the 
loftiest elevation in the gift of his country- 
men. 

Surely, if happiness can ever come from 
the honors or triumphs of this world, on 
that quiet July morning James A. Garfield 
may well have been a happy man. No 
foreboding of evil haunted him ; no slight- 
est premonition of danger clouded his sky. 
His terrible fate was upon him in an in- 
stant. One moment he stood erect, strong, 
confident in the years stretching peacefully 
out before him. The next he lay wounded, 
bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks 
of torture, to silence and the grave, 



Great in life, he was surpassingly great 
in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy 
of wantonness and wickedness, by the red 
hand of murder, he was thrust from the 
full tide of this world's interest, from his 
hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the 
visible presence of death — and he did not 
quail. Not alone for the one short moment 
in which, stunned and dazed, he could give 
up life hardly aware of its relinquishment, 
but through days of deadly languor, 
through weeks of agony, that was not less 
agony because silently borne, with clear 
sight and calm courage he looked into his 
open grave. What blight and ruin met his 
anguished eyes whose lips may tell — what 
brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high 
ambitions, what sundering of strong, 
warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter 
rending of sweet household ties ! Behind 
him a proud expectant nation ; a great host 
of sustaining friends ; a cherished and hap- 
py mother, wearing the full, rich honors 
of her early toil and tears ; the wife of his 
youth, whose whole life lay in his; the lit- 
tle boys not yet emerged from childhood's 
day of frolic; the fair young daughter; 
the sturdy sons just springing into closest 
companionship, claiming every day and 
every day rewarding a father's love and 
care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing 
power to meet all demands. Before him, 
desolation and great darkness ! And his 
soul was not shaken. His countrymen 
were thrilled with instant, profound and 
universal sympathy. Masterful in his mor- 
tal weakness, he became the center of a 
nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a 
world. But all the love and all the sym- 
pathy could not share with him his suffer- 
ing. He trod the winepress alone. With 



258 



GREAT ORATIONS. 



unfaltering front he faced death. With un- 
failing tenderness he took leave of life. 
Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's 
bullet he heard the voice of God. With 
simple resignation he bowed to the Divine 
decree. 

As the end drew near his early craving 
for the sea returned. The stately mansion 
of power had been to him the wearisome 
hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken 
from its prison walls, from its oppressive, 
stifling air, from its homelessness and its 
hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a 
great people bore the pale sufferer to the 
longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to 
die, as God should will,- within sight of its 
heaving billows, within sound of its mani- 



fold voices. With wan, fevered face ten- 
derly lifted to the cooling breeze he looked 
out wistfully upon the ocean's changing 
wonders; on its far sails, whitening in the 
morning light ; on its restless waves, rolling 
shoreward to break and die beneath the 
noonday sun ; on the red clouds of evening, 
arching low to the horizon ; on the serene 
and shining pathway of the stars. Let us 
think that his dying eyes read a mystic 
meaning which only the rapt and parting 
soul may know. Let us believe that in the 
silence of the receding world he heard the 
great waves breaking on a farther shore, 
and felt already upon his wasted brow the 
breath of the eternal morning. 



fcT* t$* c<5* 



LINCOLN ON SLAVERY. 

(Delivered at the Republican State Convention at Springfield, 111., in 1858.) 



I BELIEVE this government cannot en- 
dure permanently half slave and half 
free. I do not expect the Union to be dis- 
solved; I do not expect the house to fall; 
but I do expect that it will cease to be di- 
vided. It will become all one thing, or all 
the other. Either the opponents of slavery 
will arrest the further spread of it, and 
place it where the public mind shall rest in 
the belief that it is in the course of ultimate 
extinction ; or its advocates will push it 
forward till it shall become alike lawful 
in all the states, old as well as new, North 
as well as South. Have we no tendency 
to the latter condition? Let anyone who 
doubts carefully contemplate that now al- 
most complete legal combination piece of 
machinery, so to speak, compounded of the 
Nebraska doctrine and the Dred Scott de- 
cision. Let him consider not only what 
work the machinery is adapted to do, and 
how well adapted, but also let him study 



the history of its construction, and trace, 
if he can, or rather fail, if he can, to trace 
the evidences of design and concert of 
action among its chief architects from the 
beginning." 

During the course of his second inaugu- 
ral address, delivered on March 4th, 1865, 
but a short time before his assassination, 
President Lincoln said: 

"Neither party (North or South) ex- 
pected for the war the magnitude or the 
duration which it has already attained. 
Neither anticipated that the cause of the 
conflict might cease when, or even before 
the conflict itself should cease. Each looked 
for an easier triumph, and a result less 
fundamental and astounding. Both read 
the same Bible and pray to the same God, 
and each invokes His aid against the other. 
It may seem strange that any men should 
dare to ask a just God's assistance in 
wringing their bread from the sweat of 



GREAT ORATIONS. 



259 



other men's faces ; but let us judge not, that 
we be not judged. The prayer of both 
could not be answered. That of neither has 
been answered fully. The Almighty has 
His own purposes. 'Woe unto the world 
because of offenses, for it must needs be 
that offenses come, but woe to that man by 
whom the offense cometh.' If we shall 
suppose that American slavery is one of 
those offenses which, in the providence of 
God, must needs come, but which having 
continued through His appointed time, He 
now wills to remove, and that He gives 
to both North and South this terrible war 
as the woe due to those by whom the of- 
fense came — shall we discern there any de- 
parture from those divine attributes which 
the believers in a living God always ascribe 
to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do 
we pray, that this mighty scourge of war 



may speedily pass away. Yet if God wills 
that it continue until all the wealth piled 
by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty 
years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and 
until every drop of blood drawn with the 
lash shall be paid by another drawn with 
the sword; as was said three thousand 
years ago, so still it must be said, that 'the 
judgments of the Lord are true and right- 
eous altogether.' 

"With malice toward none, with charity 
for all, with firmness in the right as God 
gives us to see the right, let us finish the 
work we are in, to bind up the nation's 
wounds, to care for him who shall have 
borne the battle, and for his widow and his 
orphans, to do all which may achieve and 
cherish a just and a lasting peace among 
ourselves and with all nations." 



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CONKLING'S EULOGY OF GRANT. 

(Nominating General Grant for President at the Republican National Convention of 1880.) 



W 



HEN asked what State he hails 
from, 

Our sole reply shall be, 
He comes from Appomattox, 

And its famous apple tree." 

Continuing Senator Conkling said: 

"New York is for Ulysses S. Grant. 
Never defeated in peace or in war, his name 
is the most illustrious borne by living man. 

"His services attest his greatness, and 
the country — nay, the world — knows them 
by heart. His fame was earned not alone 
in things written and said, but by the ardu- 
ous greatness of things done. And perils 
and emergencies will search in vain in the 
future, as they have searched in vain in 
the past, for any other on whom the nation 
leans with such confidence and trust. Never 



having had a policy to enforce against the 
will of the people, he never betrayed a 
cause or a friend, and the people will never 
desert or betray him. * * * 

"His integrity, his common sense, his 
courage, his unequaled experience, are the 
qualities offered to his country. The only 
argument, the only one that the wit of man 
or the stress of politics has devised is one 
which would dumfounder Solomon, because 
he thought there was nothing new under 
the sun. Having tried Grant twice and 
found him faithful, we are told that we 
must not, even after an interval of years, 
trust him again. My countrymen! my 
countrymen ! what stultification does not 
such a fallacy involve! * * * 

"He was the arch-preserver of his coun- 
try, and not only in war, but twice as Civil 



260 



GREAT ORATIONS. 



Magistrate, he gave his highest, noblest ef- 
forts to the Republic. Is this an election- 
eering juggle, or is it hypocrisy's masquer- 
ade? There is no field of human activity, 
responsibility, or reason in which rational 
beings object to an agent because he has 
been weighed in the balance and not found 
wanting. There is, I say, no department of 
human reason in which sane men reject an 
agent because he has had experience, mak- 
ing him exceptionally competent and fit. 
From the man who shoes your horse, to the 
lawyer who tries your case, the officer who 
manages your railway or your mill, the 
doctor into whose hands you give your life, 
or the minister who seeks to save your 



soul, what man do you reject because by 
his works you have known him and found 
him faithful and fit? 

"What makes the presidential office an 
exception to all things else in the common 
sense to be applied to selecting its incum- 
bent? Who dares — who dares to put fet- 
ters on that free choice and judgment 
which is the birthright of the American 
people ? Can it be said that Grant has used 
official power and place to perpetuate his 
term? He has no place, and official power 
has not been used for him. * * * 

"This convention is master of a supreme 
opportunity." 



c5* t*5* *■£• 



BIRTH OF THE NEW SOUTH. 

(Delivered before the New England Society of New York in 1886.) 



THERE was a South of slavery and se- 
cession — that South is dead. There 
is a South of union and freedom — that 
South, thank God, is living, breathing, 
growing every hour." These words, deliv- 
ered from the immortal lips of Benjamin 
H. Hill, at Tammany Hall, in 1866, true 

then, and truer now, I shall make my text. 
* * * 

We of the South have found out that in 
the general summary the free negro counts 
more than he did as a slave. We have 
planted the schoolhouse on the hill top and 
made it free to white and black. We have 
sowed towns and cities in the place of 
theories, and put business above politics. 
We have challenged your spinners in Mas- 
sachusetts and your ironmakers in Penn- 
sylvania. We have learned that $400,000,- 
000 annually received from our cotton crop 
will make us rich, when the supplies that 
make it are home-raised. * * * We 
have established thrift in the city and coun- 



try. We have fallen in love with work. 
We have restored comfort to homes from 
which culture and elegance never departed. 
We have let economy take root and spread 
among us as rank as the crab grass which 
sprung from Sherman's cavalry camps, un- 
til we are ready to lay odds on the Georgia 
Yankee, as he manufactures relics of the 
battlefield in a one-story shanty and 
squeezes pure olive oil out of his cotton 
seed, against any down-easter that ever 
swapped wooden nutmegs for flannel sau- 
sages in the valley of Vermont. 

Above all, we know that we have 
achieved, in these "piping times of peace," 
a fuller independence for the South than 
that which our fathers sought to win in the 
forum by their eloquence, or compel on the 
field by their swords. * * * 

But what of the negro ? Have we solved 
the problem he presents, or progressed in 
honor and equity toward the solution? Let 
the record speak to the point. No section 



GREAT OBATIONl 



261 



shows a more prosperous laboring popula- 
tion than the negroes of the South; none 
in fuller sympathy with the employing and 
land-owning class. He shares our school 
fund, has the fullest protection of our laws, 
and the friendship of our people. Self-in- 
terest, as well as honor, demand that they 
should have this. Our future, our very 
existence, depends upon our working out 
this problem in full and exact justice. We 
understand that when Lincoln signed the 



Emancipation Proclamation, your victory 
was assured; for he then committed you 
to the cause of human liberty, against 
which the arms of man cannot prevail; 
while those of our statesmen who trusted 
to make slavery the corner stone of the 
Confederacy doomed us to defeat as far as 
they could, committing us to a cause that 
reason could not defend or the sword main- 
tain in the sight of advancing civilization. 
— Henry W. Grady. 



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THE CHARACTER AND WORK OF GLADSTONE. 

(Delivered in the Canadian House of Commons, May 26, 1898.) 



MR. SPEAKER:— Everybody in this 
House will, I think, agree that it is 
eminently fitting and proper that in the uni- 
versal expression of regret which ascends 
towards heaven from all parts of the civil- 
ized world we also should join our voice 
and testify to the very high sense of re- 
spect, admiration, and veneration which the 
entire people of Canada, irrespective of 
creed, or race, or party, entertain for the 
memory of the great man who has just 
closed his earthly career. 

England has lost the most illustrious of 
her sons; but the loss is not England's 
alone, nor is it confined to the great em- 
pire which acknowledges England's suze- 
rainty, nor even to the proud race which can 
claim kinship with the people of England. 
The loss is the loss of mankind. Mr. Glad- 
stone gave his whole life to his country; 
but the work which he did for his coun- 
try was conceived and carried out on prin- 
ciples of such high elevation, for purposes 
so noble and aims so lofty, that not his 
country alone, but the whole of mankind, 
benefited by his work. It is no exaggera- 
tion to say that he has raised the standard 
of civilization, and the world to-day is un- 



doubtedly better for both the example and 
the precept of his life. His death is 
mourned, not only by England, the land of 
his birth, not only by Scotland, the land of 
his ancestors, not only by Ireland, for 
whom he did so much, and attempted to 
do more ; but also by the people of the two 
Sicilies, for whose outraged rights he once 
aroused the conscience of Europe; by the 
people of the Ionian Islands, whose inde- 
pendence he secured ; by the people of Bul- 
garia and Danubian provinces, in whose 
cause he enlisted the sympathy of his own 
native country. Indeed, since the days of 
Napoleon, no man has lived whose name 
has traveled so far and so wide over the 
surface of the earth; no man has lived 
whose name alone so deeply moved the 
hearts of so many millions of men. Where- 
as Napoleon impressed his tremendous per- 
sonality upon peoples far and near by the 
strange fascination which the genius of 
war has always exercised over the imag- 
ination of men in all lands and in all ages, 
the name of Gladstone had come to be, in 
the minds of all civilized nations, the liv- 
ing incarnation of right against might — the 
champion, the dauntless, tireless champion, 



262 



GREAT ORATIONS. 



of the oppressed against the oppressor. It 
is, I believe, equally true to say that he 
was the most marvelous mental organiza- 
tion which the world has seen since Napo- 
leon — certainly the most compact, the most 
active, and the most universal. 

This last half century in which we live 
has produced many able and strong men, 
who, in different walks of life, have at- 
tracted the attention of the world at large ; 
but of the men who have illustrated this 
age, it seems to me that in the eyes of 
posterity four will outlive and outshine the 
others — Cavour, Lincoln, Bismarck, and 
Gladstone. If we look simply at the mag- 
nitude of the results obtained, compared 
with the exiquity of the resources at com- 
mand — if we remember that out of the 
small kingdom of Sardinia grew the United 
Italy — we must come to the conclusion that 
Count Cavour was undoubtedly a states- 
man of marvelous skill and prescience. 
Abraham Lincoln, unknown to fame when 
he was elected to the presidency, exhibited 
a power for the government of men which 
scarcely has been surpassed in any age. 
He saved the American Union, he fran- 
chised the black race, and for the task he 
had to perform he was endowed in some 
respects almost miraculously. No man ever 
displayed a greater insight into the mo- 
tives, the complex motives, which shape the 
public opinion of a free country, and he 
possessed almost to the degree of an in- 
stinct the supreme quality in a statesman 



of taking the right decision, taking it at 
the right moment, and expressing it in lan- 
guage of incomparable felicity. 

As a statesman, it was the good fortune 
of Mr. Gladstone that his career was not 
associated with war. The reforms which 
he effected, the triumphs which he achieved, 
were not won by the supreme arbitrament 
of the sword. The reforms which he ef- 
fected and the triumphs which he achieved 
were the result of his power of persuasion 
over his fellowmen. The reforms which 
he achieved in many ways amounted to a 
revolution. They changed in many partic- 
ulars, the face of the realm. After Sir 
Robert Peel had adopted the great princi- 
ple which eventually carried England from 
protection to free trade, it was Mr. Glad- 
stone who created the financial system 
which has been admitted ever since by all 
students of finance as the secret of Great 
Britain's commercial success. He enforced 
the extension of the suffrage to the masses 
of the nation, and practically there he made 
the government of monarchical England as 
democratic as that of any republic. He 
disestablished the Irish Church; he intro- 
duced reform into the land tenure, and 
brought hope into the breasts of those til- 
lers of the soil in Ireland who had for so 
many generations labored in despair. And 
all this he did, not by force or violence, but 
simply by the power of his eloquence and 
the strength of his personality. 

— Sir Wilfrid Lanrier. 



GRANT'S HERITAGE. 

(From an oration delivered at Galena, 111., on the seventy-eighth anniversary of the birth- 
day of General Grant.) 



IN" the long run every great nation 
instinctively recognizes the man who 
peculiarly and pre-eminently represents its 
own type. Here in our country we have 



had many public men of the first rank — sol- 
diers, orators, constructive statesmen and 
popular leaders. We have also had great 
philosophers who were also leaders of 



GREAT ORATIONS. 



263 



popular thought. Each one of these men 
has had his own group of devoted follow- 
ers, and some of them have at times swayed 
the nation with a power such as the fore- 
most of all hardly wielded. Yet as the gen- 
erations slip away, as the dust of conflict 
settles and as through the clearing air we 
look back with keener vision into the na- 
tion's past, mightiest among the mighty 
dead loom the three great figures of Wash- 
ington, Lincoln and Grant. There are 
great men also in the second rank; for in 
any gallery of merely national heroes, 
Franklin and Hamilton, Jefferson and Jack- 
son, would surely have their place. But 
these three greatest men have taken their 
place among the great men of all nations, 
the great men of all times. They stood 
supreme in the two great crises of our coun- 
try, on the two great occasions when we 
stood in the van of all humanity and struck 
the most effective blows that have even been 
struck for the cause of human freedom un- 
der the law. 

Washington fought in the earlier strug- 
gle, and it was his good fortune to win the 
highest renown alike as soldier and states- 
man. In the second and even greater strug- 
gle, the deeds of Lincoln, the statesman, 
were made good by those of Grant, the 
soldier, and later Grant himself took up the 
work that dropped from Lincoln's tired 
hands when the assassin's bullet went home 
and the sad, patient, kindly eyes were closed 
forever. 

Grant and his fellow soldiers who fought 
through the war, and his fellow statesmen 
who completed the work partly done by the 
soldiers, not only left us the heritage of a 
reunited country, and of a land from which 
slavery had been banished, but left us what 
was quite as important, the great memory 
of their great deeds, to serve forever as an 
example and an inspiration, to spur us on 



so that we may not fall far below the level 
reached by our fathers. The rough, strong 
poet of democracy has sung of Grant as 
the man of mighty days, and equal to the 
days. The days are less mighty now ; and 
that is all the more reason why we should 
show ourselves equal to them. 

We meet here to pay homage to the 
memory of our illustrious dead; and let us 
keep ever clear before our minds the fact 
that mere lip loyalty is no loyalty at all, and 
that the only homage that counts is tfie 
homage of deeds, not words. It is but an 
idle waste of time to celebrate the memory 
of the dead, unless we, the living, in our 
lives, strive to show ourselves not unworthy 
of them. If the careers of Washington and 
Grant are not vital and full of meaning to 
us, if they are merely part of the storied 
past, and stir us to no eager emulation in 
the ceaseless, endless war for right against 
wrong, then the root of right thinking is not 
in us ; and where we do not think right we 
can not act right. I shall ask attention, not 
to Grant's life, but to the lessons taught by 
that life as we of to-day should learn them. 

Foremost of all, the lesson of tenacity, of 
stubborn fixity of purpose. In the Union 
armies there were generals as brilliant as 
Grant, but none with his iron determination. 
This quality he showed as President no less 
than as general. He was no more to be 
influenced by a hostile majority in Con- 
gress than he was to be influenced by check 
or repulse into releasing his grip en be- 
leagured Richmond. 

Grant's supreme virtue as a soldier was 
his "doggedness" — the quality which found 
expression in his famous phrases, uncon- 
ditional surrender and "fighting it out on 
this line if it takes all summer." He was a 
master of strategy and tactics, but he was 
also a master of hard hitting, of that "con- 
tinuous hammering" which finally broke 



264 



GREAT ORATIONS. 



through even Lee's guard. While an armed 
foe was in the field it never occurred to 
Grant that any question could be so im- 
portant as his overthrow. 

Grant was no lover of fighting for fight- 
ing's sake. He was a plain, quiet man, not 
seeking for glory; but a man who, when 
aroused, was always in deadly earnest and 
who never shrank from duty. He was al- 
ways slow to strike, but he never struck 
softly. His promise squared with his per- 
formance. His deeds made good his words. 
He did not denounce an evil in strained 
and hyperbolic language ; but when he did 
denounce it he strove to make his denuncia- 
tion effective by his action; he did not 
plunge lightly into war,* but once in he saw 
the war through, and when it was over it 
was over entirely. Unsparing in battle, he 
was very merciful in victory. There was no 
let-up in his grim attack, his grim pursuit, 
until the last body of armed foes surrend- 
ered. But, that feat once accomplished, his 
first thought was for the valiant defeated — 
to let them take back their horses to their lit- 
tle homes, because they would use them to 
work on their farms. Grant, the cham- 
pion whose sword was sharpest in the great 
fight for liberty, was no less sternly insistent 
upon the need or order of obedience to law. 
No stouter foe of anarchy in every form 
ever lived within our borders. 

Grant, in short, stood for the great efc- 
mentary virtues — for justice, for freedom, 
for order, for unyielding resolution, for 
manliness in its broadest and highest sense. 



His greatness was not so much greatness of 
intellect as greatness of character; includ- 
ing in the word character all the strong, 
virile virtues. It is character that counts 
in a nation as in a man. It is a good thing 
to have a clean, fine intellectual develop- 
ment in a nation, to produce orators, artists, 
successful business men; but. it is an 
infinitely greater thing to have those solid 
qualities which we group together under 
the name of character — sobriety, steadfast- 
ness — the sense of obligation towards one's 
neighbor and one's God, hard commonsense, 
and combined with it the gift of generous 
enthusiasm towards whatever is right. 
These are the qualities which go to make 
up true national greatness, and these were 
the qualities which Grant possessed to an 
eminent degree. 

To do our duty, that is the sum and sub- 
stance of the whole matter. Not trying to 
win glory, not trying to do anything bril- 
liant or unusual, setting ourselves vigor- 
ously at each task as the task arises, and try- 
ing to face each difficulty as Grant faced 
innumerable and eminently greater difficul- 
ties. The sure way to succeed is to set 
about our work in the spirit that marked 
the great soldier whose life we this day 
celebrate ; the spirit of devotion to duty, of 
determination to deal fairly, justly and fear- 
lessly with all men, and of iron resolution 
never to abandon any task once begun until 
it has been brought to a successful and tri- 
umphant conclusion. 

— Theodore Roosevelt 



The selections in this department have been made with a view of impressing upon the minds 
of all hearers the lessons of temperance by picturing the happiness and pros- 
perity of abstainers and the misery and poverty of drunkards. 

c5* c^" «<^* 

THE BRIDAL PLEDGE. 



( ( F) LEDGE with wine — pledge with 
1 wine!" cried the young and 
thoughtless Harry Wood. 

"Pledge with wine," ran through the 
brilliant crowd. 

The beautiful bride grew pale — the de- 
cisive hour had come, she pressed her 
white hands together, and the leaves of 
her bridal wreath trembled on her pure 
brow; her breath came quicker, her heart 
beat wilder. 

"Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples 
for this once," said the Judge, in a low 
tone, going towards his daughter, "the 
company expect it; do not so seriously 
infringe upon the rules of etiquette; — in 
your own hcuse act as you please; but in 
mine, for this once please me." 

Every eye was turned towards the 
bridal pair. Marion's principles were 
well known. Henry had been a con- 
vivialist, but of late his friends noticed the 
change in his manners, the difference in 
his habits — and to-night they watched him 
to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was 
tied down to a woman's opinion so soon. 

Pouring a brimming beaker, they held 
it with tempting smiles toward Marion. 
She was very pale, though more com- 
posed, and her hand shook not, as smiling 
back, she gratefully accepted the crystal 
tempter and raised it to her lips. But 
scarcely had she done so, when every 
hand was arrested by her piercing excla- 
mation of, "Oh, how terrible!" "What 



is it?" cried one and all, thronging 
together, for she had slowly carried the 
glass at arm's length, and was fixedly 
regarding it as though it were some 
hideous object. 

"Wait/' she answered, while an inspired 
light shone from her dark eyes, "wait, 
and I will tell you. I see," she added, 
slowly pointing one jeweled finger at the 
sparkling ruby liquid, "a sight that beg- 
gars all description; and yet listen; I will 
paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely 
spot; tall mountains, crowned with ver- 
dure, rise in awful sublimity around; a 
river runs through, and bright flowers 
grow to the water's edge. There is a 
i thick, warm mist that the sun seeks 
vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beauti- 
ful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; 
but there, a group of Indians gather; 
they flit to and fro with something like 
sorrow upon their dark brow; and in their 
rrfltdst lies a manly form, but his cheek, 
how deathly! his eye wild with the fitful 
fire of fever. One friend stands beside 
him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is 
pillowing that poor head upon his breast. 
"Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy 
looking brow! Why should death mark 
it, and he so young? Look how he 
throws the damp curls! See him clasp 
his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for 
life! mark how he clutches at the form of 
his companion, imploring to be saved. 
Oh! hear him call piteously his father's 
265 



26G 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



name; see him twine his fingers together 
as he shrieks for his sister — his only 
sister — the twin of his soul — weeping for 
him in his distant native land. 

"See!" she exclaimed, while the bridal 
party shrank back, the untasted wine 
trembling in their faltering grasp, and the 
Judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat; 
"see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he 
prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever 
rushes through his veins. The friend 
beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the 
dark men move silently, and leave the 
living and dying together." 

There was a hush in that princely 
parlor, broken only by w T hat seemed a 
smothered sob, from some manly bosom. 
The bride stood yet upright, with quiver- 
ing lip, and tears stealing to the outward 
edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm 
had lost its tension, and the glass, with its 
little troubled red waves, came slowly 
towards the range of her vision. She 
spoke again; every lip was mute. Her 
voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct; 
she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon 
the w T ine-cup. 

"It is evening now; the great white 
moon is coming up, and her beams lie 
gently on his forehead. He moves not; 
his eyes are set in their sockets; dim are 
Lheir piercing glances; in vain his friend 
whispers the name of father and sister — 
death is there. Death! and no soft hand, 
no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. 
His head sinks back! one convulsive 
shudder! he is dead!" 

A groan ran through the assembly, so 
vivid was her description, so unearthly 
her look, so inspired her manner, that 
what she described seemed actually to 
have taken place then and there. They 
noticed, also, that the bridegroom hid his 
face in his hands and was weeping. 



"Dead!" she repeated again, her lips 
quivering faster and faster, and her voice 
more and more broken; "and there they 
scoop him a grave; and there, without a 
shroud, they lay him down fri the damp, 
reeking earth. The only son of a proud 
father, the only idolized brother of a fond 
sister. And he sleeps to-day in that dis- 
tant country, with no stone to mark the 
spot. There he lies — my father's son — 
my own twin brother! a victim to this 
deadly poison. Father," she exclaimed, 
turning suddenly, while the tears rained 
down her beautiful cheeks, "father, shall 
I drink it now?" 

The form of the old Judge was con- 
vulsed with agony. He raised his head, 
but in a smothered voice he faltered — 
"No, no, my child, in God's name, no." 

She lifted the glittering goblet, and let- 
ting it suddenly fall to the floor it was 
dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a 
tearful eye watched her movements, and 
instantaneously every wine-glass was 
transferred to the marble table on which 
it had been prepared. Then, as she 
looked at the fragments of crystal, she 
turned to the company, saying: "Let no 
friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt 
me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer 
the everlasting hills than my resolve, God 
helping me, never to touch or taste that 
terrible poison. And he to whom I have 
given my hand; who watched over my 
brother's dying form in that last solemn 
hour, and buried the dear wanderer there 
by the river in that land of gold, will, I 
trust, sustain me jn that resolve. Will 
you not, my husband?" 

His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet 
smile, was her answer. 

The Judge left the room, and when, an 
hour later, he returned, and with a more 
subdued manner took part in the enter- 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



26' 



tainment of the bridal guests, no one 
could fail to read that he, too, had 
determined to dash the enemy at once 
and forever from his princely rooms. 



Those who were present at that wed- 
ding can never forget the impression so 
solemnly made. Many from that hour for- 
swore the social gfiass. 



i5* e<?* c^* 



DRINK AXD DIE. 

(By a young lady, who was told that she was a monomaniac in her hatred of 

alcoholic liquors.) 



GO, feel what I have felt, 
Go, bear what I have borne; 
Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt, 
And the cold, proud world's scorn; 
Thus struggle on from year to year, 
Thy sole relief the scalding tear, 

Go, weep as I have wept 

O'er a loved father's fall; 
See every cherished promise swept, 
Youth's sweetness turned to gall; 
Hope's faded flowers strewn all the way 
That led me up to woman's day. 

Go, kneel as I have knelt; 

Implore, beseech, and pray, 
Strive the besotted heart to melt, 
The downward course to stay; 
Be cast with bitter curse aside — 
Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. 

Go, stand where I have stood, 

And see the strong man bow, 
With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in 
blood, 
And cold and livid brow; 
Go, catch his wandering glance, and see 
There mirrored his soul's misery. 

Go, hear what I have heard — 

The sobs of sad despair, 
As memory's feeling-fount hath stirred, 
And its revealings there 
Have told him what he might have been, 
Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. 



Go to a mother's side, 

And her crushed spirit cheer; 
Thine own deep anguish hide, 
Wipe from her cheek the tear; 
Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, 
The gray that streaks her dark hair now, 
The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, 
And trace the ruin back to him 
W r hose plighted faith, in early youth, 
Promised eternal love and truth, 
Eut who, forsworn, hath yielded up 
This promise to the deadly cup, 
And led her down from love and light, 
From all that made her pathway bright, 
And chained her there 'mid want and strife, 
That lowly thing — a drunkard's wife! 
And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild. 
That withering blight — a drunkard's child! 

Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know 

All that my soul hath felt and known, 
Then look within the wine-cup's glow; 
See if its brightness can atone; 
Think if its flavor you would try, 
If all proclaimed — 'Tis drink and die! 

Tell me I hate the bowl — 

Hate is a feeble word; 
I loathe, abhor — my very soul 
By strong disgust is stirred 
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell 
Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL! 



268 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



"GOOD NIGHT, PAPA." 



THE words of a blue-eyed child as she 
kissed her chubby hand and looked 
down the stairs: "Good-night, papa; Jessie 
see you in the morning." 

It came to be a settled thing, and every 
evening, as the mother slipped the white 
night-gown over the plump shoulders, the 
little one stopped on the stairs and sang 
out, "Good-night, papa," and as the father 
heard the silvery accents of the child, he 
came, and taking the cherub in his arms, 
kissed her tenderly,, while the mother's 
eyes filled, and a swift prayer went up, for, 
strange to say, this man who loved his 
child with all the warmth of his great, 
noble nature, had one fault to mar his 
manliness. From his youth he loved the 
wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and with a fas- 
cination of manner that won him friends, 
he could not resist when surrounded by his 
boon companions. Thus his home was 
darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and 
bleeding, the future of his child shadowed. 

Three years had the winsome prattle of 
the baby crept into the avenues of the 
father's heart, keeping him closer to his 
home, but still the fatal cup was in his 
hand. Alas for frail humanity, insensible 
to the calls of love! With unutterable 
tenderness God saw there was no other 
way; this father was dear to him, the 
purchase of His Son; He could not see 
him perish, and calling a swift messenger, 
He said, "Speed thee to earth and bring 
the babe." 

"Good-night, papa," sounded from the 
stairs. What was there in the voice? was 
it the echo of the mandate, "Bring me the 
babe"? — a silvery plaintive sound, a linger- 
ing music that touched the father's heart, 
as when a cloud crosses the sun. "Good- 
night, my darling;" but his lips quivered 
and his broad brow grew pale. "Is Jessie 



sick, mother? Her cheeks are flushed, and 
her eyes have a strange light." 

"Not sick," and the mother stooped to 
kiss the flushed brow; "she may have 
played too much. Pet is not sick?" 

"Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa; 
Jessie see you in the morning." 

"That is all, she is only tired," said the 
mother as she took the small hand. An- 
other kiss and the father turned away; but 
his heart was not satisfied. 

Sweet lullabies were sung; but Jessie 
was restless and could not sleep. "Tell me 
a story mamma;" and the mother told of 
the blessed babe that Mary cradled, fol- 
lowing along the story till the child had 
grown to walk and play. The blue, wide- 
open eyes filled with a strange light, as 
though she saw and comprehended more 
than the mother knew. 

That night the father did not visit the 
saloon; tossing on his bed, starting from 
a feverish sleep and bending over the crib, 
the long, weary hours passed. Morning 
revealed the truth — Jessie was smitten with 
a fever. 

"Keep her quiet," the doctor said; "a 
few days of good nursing, and she will be 
all right." 

Words easy said; but the father saw a 
look on the sweet face such as he had seen 
before. He knew the message was at the 
door. 

Night came. "Jessie is sick; can't say 
good-night, papa;" and the little clasping 
fingers clung to the father's hand. 

"O God, spare her! I cannot, cannot 
bear it!" was wrung from his suffering 
heart. 

Days passed; the mother was tireless in 
her watching. With her babe cradled in 
her arms her heart was slow to take in the 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



269 



truth, doing her best to solace the father's 
heart: "A light case! the doctor says, 'Pet 
will soon be well.' " 

Calmly as one who knows his doom, the 
father laid his hand upon the hot brow, 
looked into the eyes even then covered 
with the film of death, and with all the 
strength of his manhood cried, "Spare her, 
O God! spare my child, and I will follow 
Thee." 

With a last painful effort the parched 
lips opened: "Jessie's too sick; can't say 
good-night, papa — in the morning." There 
was a convulsive shudder, and the clasp- 



ing fingers relaxed their hold; the messen- 
ger had taken the child. 

Months have passed. Jessie's crib stands 
by the side of her father's couch; her blue 
embroidered dress and white hat hang in 
his closet; her boots with the print of the 
feet just as she last wore them, as sacred 
in his eyes as they are in the mother's. 
Xot dead, but merely risen to a higher 
life; while, sounding down from the upper 
stairs, "Good-night, papa, Jessie see you in 
the morning," has been the means of win- 
ning to a better way one who had shown 
himself deaf to every former call. 



£fr »^nt v5* 



COUNTING THE COST 



(A glass of wine may be held in the hand 
and then dashed 

SUPPOSE the young man who holds 
the first glass of intoxicating liquor 
in his hands were to hold it there for five 
minutes, counting the cost of a burning 
brain; counting the cost of a palsied hand; 
counting the cost of a staggering step; 
counting the cost of broken hearts and of 
tear-stained pillows; counting the cost of 
a blighted home; counting the cost of the 



up to the word: 
to the floor.) 



'slow poison of death,' 



self-respect which oozes out at the finger 
tips as they clasp the sparkling curse; 
counting the cost of the degradation and 
disgrace of a ruined body and a lost soul. 
What young man could soberly count the 
cost of that one step, and not be strength- 
ened against the temptation to sip the slow 
poison of death? 



c*5* ^* ^* 



TEMPERANCE SPEECH. 



I WISH to say a few words on temper- 
ance. I suppose you'll say the sub- 
ject is too deep for boys, and that this 
speech is altogether too old for me. Xow, 
I will be honest with you, and say, in the 
first place, that these are not my words, or, 
rather, the thoughts are not really mine; 
but it is what I think of other people's 
thoughts. And as for the subject being too 
deep for me, that is all mere nonsense. 
Small as I am, I have seen people drunk 



a great many times. And they are not 
men alone; I have seen women and chil- 
dren drunk, more than once; and every 
time I see it, I feel sorry. 

When I see men going into a lager beer 
saloon, day after day, or women carrying 
home liquor in a pitcher or bottle, then I 
think of the time when I saw them drunk 
on the sidewalk, or quarreling with a 
lamp-post, or staggering home to beat 
their wife or children, and I know that 



270 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



one is the beginning of the other. That 
is not what somebody else says; for I 
know that of myself. 

I have been to temperance meetings 
some, and have heard about the best 
means of promoting the cause of temper- 
ance — and they tell about taking away the 
liberty of the people! I confess, I don't 
understand this; but I want to; for I 
want to be intelligent enough to vote one 
of these days, which some men are not, 
they say. But I'm going to tell you what 
I think about it, from what I do know. I 
think it is a strange liberty that men want 
— liberty to get drunk, and reel around 
the streets, and frighten children, and be 
made fun of by the boys, and to go home 



at two o'clock in the morning, and get into 
bed with their boots on and not know the 
difference. 

Then, they say it is no sin to drink, but 
it is a sin to get drunk. Now, my father 
and mother teach me that it is just as 
wrong to steal a pin as to steal money, 
and they would punish me just the same 
for it. If it is a sin to drink ten glasses of 
whisky and get drunk, it is a sin to drink 
one glass; for some people can get more 
tipsy, disagreeable and dangerous on one 
glass than if they drank many and grew 
helplessly drunk. Take a boy's advice and 
don't touch it yourself and don't sell or 
give it to others. 



£9 £fc £fc 



I HAVE DRANK MY LAST GLASS. 



N 



O, comrades, I thank you — not any for 
me; 
My last chain is riven — henceforward I'm 

free! 
I will go to my home and my children to- 
night 
With no fumes of liquor, their spirits to 

blight; 
And, with tears in my eyes, I will beg my 

poor wife 
To forgive me the wreck I have made of 

her life. 
/ have never refused you before? Let that 

pass, 

For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
I have drank my last glass. 

Just look at me now, boys, in rags and dis- 
grace, 

With my bleared, haggard eyes, and my red, 
bloated face; 

Mark my faltering step and my weak 
palsied hand, 



And the mark on my brow that is worse 

than Cain's brand ; 
See my crownless old hat, and my elbows 

and knees, 
Alike, warmed by the sun, or chilled by the 

breeze. 
Why, even the children will hoot as I 

pass ; — 

But I've drank my last glass, boys, 
I have drank my last glass. 

You would hardly believe, boys, to look at 

me now 
That a mother's soft hand was pressed on 

my brow — 
When she kissed me, and blessed me, her 

darling, her pride, — 
Ere she laid down to rest by my dead 

father's side: 
But with love in her eyes, she looked up to 

the sky, 
Bidding me meet her there, and whispered 

"Good-bye." 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



271 



And I'll do it, God heiping ! Your smile I 
let pass, 

For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
I have drank my last glass. 

Ah! I reeled home last night — it was not 

very late, 
For I'd spent my last sixpence, and land- 
lords won't wait 
On a fellow, who's left every cent in their 

till, 
And has pawned his last bed, their coffer's 

to fill. 
Oh, the torments I felt, and the pangs I 

endured ! 
And I begged for one glass — just one 

would have cured. — 
But they kicked me out doors ! I let that, 

too, pass, 

For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
I have drank my last glass. 

At home, my pet Susie, with her rich golden 
hair, 

I saw through the window, just kneeling in 
prayer ; 

From her pale, bony hands, her torn sleeves 
were strung down, 

While her feet, cold and bare, shrank be- 
neath her scant gown ; 

And she prayed — prayed for bread, just a 
poor crust of bread, — 

For one crust, on her knees my pet darling 
plead ! 

DRINKING 

MY homeless friend with the ruby 
nose, while you are stirring up the 
sugar in that ten-cent glass of gin, let me 
give you a fact to wash it down with. You 
say you have longed for years for the free, 
independent life of the farmer, but have 



And I heard, with no penny to buy one, 
alas ! 

But I've drank my last glass, boys, 
I have drank my last glass. 

For Susie, my darling, my wee six-year-old, 
Though fainting with hunger and shivering 

with cold, 
There, on the bare floor, asked God to 

bless me! 
And she said, "Don't cry, mamma ! He will ! 

for, you see, 
I believe what I ask for." Then sobered, I 

crept 
Away from the house ; and that night, when 

I slept, 
Next my heart lay the Pledge !- You smile ! 

let it pass, 

For I've drank my last glass, boys, 

I have drank my last glass. 

» 
My darling child saved me ! Her faith and 

her love 
Are akin to my dear sainted mother's above ! 
I will make my words true, or I'll die in the 

race, 
And sober I'll go to my last resting place ; 
And she shall kneel there, and, weeping, 

thank God 
No drunkard lies under the daisy-strewn 

sod! 
Not a drop more of poison my lips shall e'er 

pass, 

For I've drank my last glass, boys, 
I have drank my last glass. 



£ 



A HOME. 

never been able to get enough money to- 
gether to buy a farm. But this is just 
where you are mistaken. For several years 
you have been drinking a good improved 
farm at the rate of one hundred square feet 
a gulp. If you doubt this statement, figure 



m 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



it out for yourself. An acre of land con- 
tains forty-three thousand five hundred 
and sixty square feet. Estimating, for con- 
venience, the land at forty-three dollars and 
fifty-six cents per acre, you will see that 
this brings the land to just one mill per 
square foot, one cent for ten square feet. 
Now pour down that fiery dose, and just 
imagine you are swallowing a strawberry 
patch. Call in five of your friends, and 
have them help you gulp down that five- 
hundred-foot garden. Get on a pro- 
longed spree some day, and see how long 
a time it requires to swallow a pasture 



large enough to feed a cow. Put down 
that glass of gin! there is dirt in it — one 
hundred square feet of good, rich dirt, 
worth forty-three dollars and fifty-six cents 
per acre. 

But there are plenty of farms which do 
not cost more than a tenth part of forty- 
three dollars and fifty-six cents per acre. 
What an enormous acreage has gone down 
many a homeless drinker's throat! No 
wonder such men are buried in the "pot- 
ter's field"; they have swallowed farms and 
gardens and homes, and even drank up 
their own graveyard. 



to* *2fr *2& 



THE TWO GLASSES. 



THERE sat two glasses filled to the brim, 
On a rich man's table, rim to rim, 
One was ruddy and red as blood, 
And one as clear as the crystal flood. 

Said the glass of wine to the paler brother: 
"Let us tell the tales of the past to each 

other; 
I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth, 
And the proudest and grandest souls on 

earth 
Fell under my touch as though struck by 

blight, 
Where I was king, for I ruled in might ; 
From the heads of kings I have torn the 

crown, 
From the heights of fame I have hurled 

men down: 
I have blasted many an honored name ; 
I have taken virtue and given shame ; 
I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste 
That has made his future a barren waste. 
Greater, far greater than king am I, 
Or than any army beneath the sky. 
I have made the arm of the driver fail, 
And sent the train from the iron rail: 



I have made good ships go down at sea, 
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to 

me, 
For they said, 'Behold how great you be! 
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you 

fall, 
For your might and power are over all.' 
Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine, 
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?" 

Said the water glass : "I cannot boast 
Of a king dethroned or a murdered host; 
But I can tell of a heart once sad, 
By my crystal drops, made light and glad; 
Of thirsts I've quenched, of brows I've 

laved, 
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have 

saved ; 
I have leaped through the valley, dashed 

down the mountain, 
Flowed in the river and played in the 

fountain, 
Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the 

sky, 
And everywhere gladdened the landscape 

and eye. 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



273 



I have eased the hot forehead of fever and 

pain ; 
I have made the parched meadows grow 

fertile with grain; 
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, 
That ground out the flour and turned at 

my will. 
I can tell of manhood debased by you, 
That I have lifted and crowned anew. 



I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; 
I gladden the heart of man and maid; 
I set the chained wine-captive free; 
And all are better for knowing me." 

These are the tales they told each other, 
The glass of wine and the paler brother, 
As they sat together filled to the brim, 
On the rich man's table, rim to rim. 



c«5* t5* «<5* 



THEY'VE STOPPED SELLING LIQUOR IN TOWN, 



HERE'S good news for you, mother." 
the old farmer said, 
As he paused where his good wife was 

moulding the bread, 
"I've been talking awhile with our friend 

neighbor Brown, 
And he says they've stopped selling liquor 
in town. 

"I just took off my hat and shouted huzza, 
When he said men had got to live up to 

the law, 
And I knew it would make your heart 

happy to know 
They have dried up the fountain of madness 

and woe. 

"Now the town will be peaceful and safe 

once again, 
And the street won't be crowded with wild, 

drunken men; 
And the boys won't be tempted to smoke, 

drink and fight, 
To gamble all day and carouse all the night. 

"There's Kate, bless her heart, she will 

dance like a top, 
For she can go back now and sew in the 

shop, 
It won't be unsafe for her now I am sure, 
For though she is thoughtless the child's 

heart is pure. 



"You needn't buy things at the corners no 

more, 
For I'll send Sam to town to the big dry 

goods store ; 
He won't come home drunk, with the buggy 

broke down, 
For I tell you they have stopped selling 

liquor in town. 

"There's Jim, he won't study, and don't 

take to work, 
We can let him go now and hire out for a 

clerk, 
It will do the boy good, he'll find out it ain't 

play, 
And there ain't any grog-shops to lead him 

astray. 

"And there's little Peter, you know how he 

learns, 
And how he saves up every penny he earns 
To buy a new book, and the boy's got a 

plan, 
That he'll be a lawyer when he is a man. 

"So if you are willing to venture, I think 
We will send him to town now — he won't 

learn to drink. 
They've got a good school, and he'll learn 

very fast, 
I am glad they have stopped selling liquor 

at last." 



274 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



He paused, and the wife of his youth made 

reply, 
While joy sent the tear-drops like pearls 

from her eye, 



"Heaven bless the pure hearts that have put 

the curse down, 
Thank God they have stopped selling liquor 



in town. 



-Dell M. Mason. 



t&& t£& t&* 



A GLASS OF COLD WATER. 

(A stirring Temperance oration. When the two last words are spoken raise and hold before 

the audience a glass of water.) 



WHERE is the liquor which God the 
Eternal brews for all his children? 
Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires 
choked with poisonous gases, and sur- 
rounded with the stench of sickening 
odors, and rank corruptions, doth your 
Father in heaven prepare the precious 
essence of life, the pure cold water. But 
in the green glade and grassy dell, where 
the red deer wanders, and the child loves 
to play; there God brews it. And down, 
low down in the lowest valleys, where the 
fountains murmur and the rills sing; and 
high upon the tall mountain tops, where 
the naked granite glitters like gold in the 
sun; where the storm-cloud broods, and 
the thunder-storms crash; and away far out 
on the wide, wild sea, where the hurricane 
howls music, and the big waves roar; the 
chorus sweeping the march of God: there 
he brews it — that beverage of life and 
health-giving water. And everywhere it 
is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew- 
drop; singing in the summer rain; shin- 



ing in the ice-gem, till the leaves all seem 
to turn to living jewels; spreading a golden 
veil over the setting sun; or a white gauze 
around the midnight moon. 

Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the 
glacier; dancing in the hail shower; fold- 
ing its bright snow curtains softly about 
the wintry world; and waving the many- 
colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, 
whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, 
whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven; all 
checkered over with celestial flowers, by 
the mystic hand of refraction. 

Still always it is beautiful, that life-giv- 
ing water; no poison bubbles on its brink; 
its foam brings not madness and murder; 
no blood stains its liquid glass; pale 
widows and starving orphans weep no 
burning tears in its depth; no drunken, 
shrieking ghost from the grave curses it 
in the words of eternal despair ; speak out, 
my friends, would you exchange the 
demon's drink, alcohol, for this? 



,£ 3 



SAVED BY A SONG. 



NEARER, my God, to Thee," 
What, can it be I hear aright 
That sweet old song in such a place — 

Beneath the bar-room's glittering light? 
Listen; it is a woman's voice 

That drifts upon the breeze to me, 



From yonder gilded, gay saloon, 
"Nearer, my God, to Thee." 

Where have I heard that song before? 

Memory adown the long years speeds; 
I hear once more those precious words, 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



275 



And then the preacher softly reads 
A few lines from the book of life; 

Then some one softly strokes my head 
And whispers, oh, so tenderly: 

"Poor little boy, your mother's dead." 

Oh! how it all comes back to me! 

Those whispered words, that tender 
song; 
My boyish heart was well-nigh broke; 

I cried for mother all night long. 
I see the cozy sitting-room, 

The straight-back chairs 'ranged in a 
row — 
The moonlight stealing thro' the blinds, 

The jessamine swaying to and fro. 



And there my mother's rocking chair, 

From which a sweet face often smiled, 
As with her Bible on her lap 

She turned to bless her darling child. 
But that was years and years ago; 

What am I now? A wretch to shun, 
Going down the road to ruin fast, 

I'm on the drunkard's "homeward run." 

Somehow that song has reached my heart 

And seemed to pierce it thro' and thro', 
And called forth feelings that I'm sure 

Naught else on earth could ever do. 
My throat is parched from want of rum, 

My head seems growing wild with pain; 
But, mother, hear your boy to-night: 

I'll never touch a drop again. 



c£* fcy* t£& 



TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 



TRAMP, tramp, the boys are marching; 
how many of them? Sixty thousand! 
Sixty full regiments, every man of which 
will, before twelve months shall have com- 
pleted their course, lie down in the grave 
of -a drunkard! Every year during the 
past decade has witnessed the same sacri- 
fice; and sixty regiments stand behind this 
army ready to take its place. It is to be 
recruited from our children and our chil- 
dren's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — 
the sounds come to us in the echoes of the 
army just expired; tramp, tramp, tramp — 
the earth shakes with the tread of the host 
now passing; tramp, tramp, tramp— comes 
to us from the camp of the recruits. A 
great tide of life flows resistlessly to its 
death. What in God's name are they fight- 
ing for? The privilege of pleasing an ap- 
petite, of conforming to a social usage, of 
filling sixty thousand homes with shame 
and sorrow, of loading the public with the 
burden of pauperism, of crowding our 



prison houses with felons, of detracting 
from the productive industries of the coun- 
try, of ruining fortunes and breaking hopes, 
of breeding disease and wretchedness, of 
destroying both body and soul in hell be- 
fore their time. 

The prosperity of the liquor interest, 
covering every department of it, depends 
entirely on the maintenance of this army. 
It cannot live without it. It never did live 
without it. So long as the liquor interest 
maintains its present prosperous condition, 
it will cost America the sacrifice of sixty 
thousand men every year. The effect is 
inseparable from the cause. The cost to 
the country of the liquor traffic is a sum so 
stupendous that any figures which we 
should dare to give would convict us of 
trifling. The amount of life absolutely de- 
stroyed, the amount of industry sacrificed, 
the amount of bread transformed into 
poison, the shame, the unavailing sorrow, 
the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, the 



276 



TEMPERANCE SELECTIONS. 



brutality, the wild waste of vital and finan- 
cial resources, make an aggregate so vast 
— so incalculably vast, — that the only won- 



der is that the American people do not rise 
as one man and declare that this great 
curse shall exist no longer. — F. G. Holland. 



& <£ 



SAMPLE ROOMS. 



SAMPLES of wine, and samples of beer, 
Samples of all kinds of liquors sold 
here ; 
Samples of whiskey, samples of gin, 
Samples of all kinds of bitters. Step in. 
Samples of ale, and porter, and brandy; 
Samples as large as you please, and quite 

handy; 
Our samples are pure, and also you'll find 
Our customers always genteel and refined; 
For gentlemen know when they've taken 

enough, 
And never partake of the common stuff. 

Besides these samples within, you know, 
There are samples without of what they 

can do ; 
Samples of headache, samples of gout; 
Samples of coats with the elbows out, 
Samples of boots without heels or toes; 
Samples of men with a broken nose, 
Samples of men in the gutter lying, 
Samples of men with delirium dying, 
Samples of men carousing and swearing, 
Samples of men all evil daring; 



Samples of lonely, tired men, 
Who long in vain for their freedom again; 
Samples of old men worn in the strife, 
Samples of young men tired of life; 
Samples of ruined hopes and lives, 
Samples of desolate homes and wives; 
Samples of aching hearts grown cold 
With anguish and misery untold; 
Samples of noble youth in disgrace, 
Who meet you with averted face ; 
Samples of hungry little ones, 
Starving to death in their dreary homes. 
In fact, there is scarcely a woe on earth 
But these ''samples" have nurtured 

given birth! 
Oh ! all ye helpers to sorrow and crime 
Who deal out death for a single dime, 
Know ye that the Lord, though he 

delay, 
Has in reserve for the last great day 
The terrible "woe," of whose solemn weight 
No mortal can know till the pearly gate 
Is closed, and all with one accord 
Acknowledge the justice of their reward. 



or 



may 





Photo by Byron, N. Y. 

"DON'T GO. FOB MY SAKE, DON'T GO.' 





u 

i < 

IS 

o 



No program is complete without a religious selection, and those contained herein are among 
the grandest and most beautiful in the English language. 

fcT* t&* tO* 

THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 



In Concert. 

HOW sweet the chime of the Sabbath 
bells ! 
Each one its creed in music tells, 
In tones that float upon the air, 
As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; 
And I will put in simple rhyme 
The language of the golden chime ; 
My happy heart with rapture swells 
Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 

First Girl. 
"In deeds of love excel ! excel !" 
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; 
"This is the church not built on sands, 
Emblem of one not built with hands ; 
In forms and sacred rites revere, 
Come worship here ! come worship here ! 
In rituals and faith excel !" 
Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 

Second Girl. 
"Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well!" 
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell; 
"No progress made by mortal man 
Can change the just eternal plan ; 
With God there can be nothing new ; 
Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
While all is well ! is well ! is well !" 
Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 

Third Girl. 
"Ye purifying waters swell !" 
In mellow tones rang out a bell ; 
"Though faith alone in Christ can save, 



Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 
To show the world unfaltering faith 
In what the sacred scripture saith : 
Oh swell ! ye rising waters, swell !" 
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 

Fourth Girl. 
"Not faith alone, but works as well, 
Must test the soul !" said a soft bell ; 
"Come here and cast aside your load, 
And work your way along the road, 
With faith in God, and faith in man, 
And hope in Christ, where hope began ; 
Do well ! do well ! do well ! do well !" 
Rang out the Unitarian bell. 

Fifth Girl. 
"Farewell ! farewell ! base world, farewell I" 
In touching tones exclaimed a bell; 
"Life is a boon, to mortals given; 
To fit the soul for bliss in heaven ; 
Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
Come here and learn the way to God ; 
Say to the world farewell ! farewell !" 
Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 

Sixth Girl. 
"To all the truth we tell ! we tell !" 
Shouted in ecstasies a bell; 
"Come all ye weary wanderers, see! 
Our Lord has made salvation free ! 
Repent, believe, have faith, and then 
Be saved and praise the Lord, Amen ! 
Salvation's free, we tell ! we tell !" 
Shouted the Methodistic bell. 



279 



280 



RELIGIOUS READINGS. 



Seventh Girl. 
"In after life there is no hell !" 
In rapture rang a cheerful bell ; 
"Look up to heaven this holy day, 
Where angels wait to lead the way ; 
There are no fires, no fiends to blight 
The future life ; be just and right. 
No hell ! no hell ! no hell ! no hell !" 
Rang out the Universalist bell. 

Eighth Girl. 
"The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 
My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell ; 
"No fetters here to clog the soul; 
No arbitrary creeds control 
The free heart and progressive mind, 
That leave the dusty past behind. 
Speed well, speed well, speed well, speed 

well !" 
Pealed out the Independent bell. 

Ninth Girl. 
"No Pope, no Pope, to doom to hell !" 
The Protestant rang out a bell ; 
"Great Luther left his fiery zeal 
Within the hearts that truly feel 



That loyalty to God will be 
The fealty that makes man free. 
No images where incense fell !" 
Rang out old Martin Luther's bell. 

Tenth Girl. 
"All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell 
Close by the cross !" exclaimed a bell ; 
"Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, 
And deign to bless a world like this ; 
Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
Adore the water and the wine ! 
All hail ye saints, the chorus swell !" 
Chimed in the Roman Catholic bell. 

In Chorus. 
"Ye workers who have toiled so well, 
To save the race !" said a sweet bell ; 
"With pledge, and badge, and banner, 

come, 
Each brave heart beating like a drum; 
Be royal men of noble deeds. 
For love is holier than creeds ; 
Drink from the well, the well, the well !" 
In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 

— George W. Bungay. 



DEATH OF LITTLE NELL 



SHE was dead. No sleep so beautiful 
and calm, so free from trace of pain, 
so fair to look upon. She seemed a crea- 
ture fresh from the hand of God, and wait- 
ing for the breath of life; not one who 
had lived and suffered death. Her couch 
was dressed with here and there some win- 
ter-berries and green leaves, gathered in a 
spot she had been used to favor. "When I 
die, put me near something that has loved 
the light, and had the sky above it always." 
Those were her words. 

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, no- 
ble Nell was dead. Her little bird, a poor 
slight thing, which the pressure of a finger 



would have crushed, was stirring nimbly 
in its cage; and the strong heart of its 
child-mistress was white and motionless for- 
ever. Where were the traces of her early 
cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? All 
gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; 
but peace and perfect happiness was born — 
imaged — in her tranquil beauty and pro- 
found repose. And still her former self 
lay there, unaltered in this change. 

Yes, the old fireside had smiled upon that 
same sweet face, which had passed, like a 
dream, through haunts of misery and care. 
At the door of the poor schoolmaster on 
the summer evening, before the furnace fire 



RELIGIOUS READINGS. 



281 



upon the cold wet night, at the same still 
bedside of the dying boy, there had been 
the same mild, lovely look. 

The old man took one languid arm in his, 
and held the small hand to his breast for 
warmth. It was the hand she had stretched 
out to him with her last smile — the hand 
that had led him on through all their wan- 
derings. Ever and anon he pressed it to 
his lips ; then hugged it to his breast again, 
murmuring that it was warmer now; and, 
as he said it, he looked in agony to those 
who stood around, as if imploring them 
to help her. 

She was dead, and past all help or need 
of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed 
to fill with life, even while her own was 
waning fast, the garden she had tended, 
the eyes she had gladdened, the noiseless 
haunts of many a thoughtful hour, the 
paths she had trodden, as it were, but yes- 
terday, could know her no more. 

She had been dead two days. They were 



all about her at the time, knowing that the 
end was drawing on. She died soon after 
daybreak. They had read and talked to her 
in the earlier portion of the night, but as 
the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They 
could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her 
dreams, that they were of her journeyings 
with the old man ; they were of no painful 
scenes, but of those who had helped and 
used them kindly ; for she often said "God 
bless you !" with great fervor. Walking, she 
never wandered in her mind but once ; and 
that was at beautiful music which she said 
was in the air. God knows. It may have 
been. 

Opening her eyes at last from a very 
quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss 
her once again. That done, she turned 
again to the old man, with a lovely smile on 
her face, — such, they said, as they had nev- 
er seen, and never could forget, — and clung 
with both arms about his neck. They did 
not know that she was dead at first. 




V?* t<5* *7* 



SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE. 



UNANSWERED yet ! The prayer your 
lips have pleaded 
In agony of heart, these many years? 
Does faith begin to fail, is hope departing, 
And think you all in vain those falling 
tears ? 
Say not the Father hath not heard your 
prayer ; 
You shall have your desire, sometime, 
somewhere. 

Unanswered yet? Though when you first 

presented 
This one petition to the Father's throne, 
It seemed you could not wait the time of 

asking, 



So urgent was your heart to make it 

known. 
Though years have passed since then, do 

not despair ; 
The Lord will answer you sometime, 

somewhere. 

Unanswered yet? Nay, do not say, un- 
granted ! 
Perhaps your part is not yet wholly done. 
The work began when first your prayer was 
uttered, 
And God will finish what He has begun. 
If you will keep the incense burning there, 
His glory you shall see, sometime, some- 
where. 



282 



RELIGIOUS READINGS. 



Unanswered yet? Faith cannot be un- 
answered, 
Her feet are firmly planted on the Rock ; 

Amid the wildest storms she stands un- 
daunted, 



Nor quails before the loudest thunder 
shock. 
She knows Omnipotence has heard her 
prayer 
And cries, "It shall be done, sometime, 
somewhere." 



<,£• C^W Igfr 



NEARER HOME. 



ONE sweetly solemn thought 
Comes to me o'er and o'er : 
I'm nearer my home to-day 
Than I ever have been before. 

Nearer my Father's house, 
Where the many mansions be ; 

Nearer the great white throne, 
Nearer the crystal sea ; 

Nearer the bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens down 
Nearer leaving the cross, 

Nearer gaining the crown. 



i3* ^5* 



But the waves of that silent sea 
Roll dark before my sight, 

That brightly the other side 
Break on a shore of light. 

O, if my mortal feet 

Have almost gained the brink, 
If it be I am nearer home 

Even to-day than I think, 

Father, perfect my trust, 
Let my spirit feel in death 

That her feet are firmly set 
On the Rock of a living faith. 



THERE IS NO DEATH. 



THERE is no death ! The stars go down 
To rise upon some fairer shore ; 
And bright in heaven's jeweled crown 
They shine for evermore. 

There is no death ! The dust we tread 
Shall change beneath the summer showers 

To golden grain or mellowed fruit 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers, 

The granite rocks disorganize, 

And feed the hungry moss they bear ; 

The forest leaves drink daily life 
From out the viewless air. 

There is no death ! The leaves may fall, 
And flowers may fade and pass away ; 

They only wait through wintry hours 
The coming of the May. 



There is no death ! An angel form 

Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; 

He bears our best-loved things away, 
And then we call them "dead." 

He leaves our hearts all desolate; 

He plucks our fairesu, sweetest flowers; 
Transplanted into bliss, they now 

Adorn immortal bowers. 

The birdlike voice, whose joyous tones 
Made glad these scenes of sin and strife, 

Sings now an everlasting song 
Around the tree of life. 

Where'er He sees a smile toe bright, 
Or heart too pure for taint and vice, 

He bears it to that world of light, 
To dwell in paradise. 



RELIGIOUS READINGS. 



283 



Born unto that undying life, 

They leave us but to come again ; 

With joy we welcome them the same,- 
Except their sin and pain. 



And ever near us, though unseen, 
The dear immortal spirits tread; 

For all the boundless universe 
Is life — there are no dead. 



l£& fe?* &$• 



A HOME WHERE GOD IS. 



j 'TWAS early day, and sunlight streamed 

1 Soft through a quiet room, 
That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed 

Still, but with naught of gloom. 
For there, serene in happy age, 

Whose hope is from above, 
A father communed with the page 

,Of heaven's recorded love. 

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 

On his gray holy hair, 
And touched the page with tenderest light, 

As if its shrine were there ! 
But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone 

With something lovelier far — 
A radiance all the spirit's own, 

Caught not from sun or star. 



Some word of life e'en then had met 

His calm benignant eye ; 
Some ancient promise breathing yet 

Of immortality ! 
Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 

Of quenchless faith survives: 
While every feature said — "I know 

That my Redeemer lives !" 

And silent stood his children by 

Hushing their very breath, 
Before the solemn sanctity 

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 
Silent — yet did not each young breast 

With love and reverence melt ? 
Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest 

That home where God is felt ! 



t&& C7* c5* 



RECESSIONAL. 



GOD of our fathers, known of old — 
Lord of our far-flung battle-line — 
Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

The tumult and the shouting dies — 

The captains and the kings depart — 
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

Far-called our navies melt away — 



On dune and headland sinks the fire — 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe- 
Such boasting as the Gentiles use 
Or lesser breeds without the law — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard — 



284: 



RELIGIOUS READINGS. 



All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding calls not Thee to guard — 
For frantic boast and foolish word, 



Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord! 
Amen. 

— Rudyard Kipling. 



*2fc fc5* c£* 



THERE IS NO UNBELIEF. 



THERE is no Unbelief! 
Whoever plants a seed beneath the 
sod 
And waits to see it push away the clod, 
Trusts he in God. 

There is no Unbelief ! 
Whoever says, when clouds are in the sky, 
Be patient, heart, light breaketh by and by, 

Trusts the most High. 

There is no Unbelief ! 
Whoever sees 'neath Winter's fields of snow 
The silent harvests of the future grow, 

God's power must know. 

There is no Unbelief ! 
Whoever lies down on his couch to sleep, 

4?* S. 



Content to lock each sense in slumber deep, 
Knows God will keep. 

There is no Unbelief ! 
Whoever says to-morrow, the unknown, 
The future, trusts that power alone 

He dare disown. 

There is no Unbelief ! 
The heart that looks on when dear eyelids 

close 
And dares to live when life has only woes, 

God's comfort knows. 

There is no Unbelief ! 
For thus by day and night unconsciously 
The heart lives by that faith the lips deny, 

God knoweth why. 



IMMORTALITY. 



us 



O listen, man! 
speaks that startling 



A voice within 
word, 

"Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial 
voices 

Hymn it into our souls; according harps, 

By angel ringers touched, when the mild 
stars 

Of morning sang together, sound forth still 

The song of our great immortality. 

Thick-clustering orbs, and this our fair do- 
main, 

The tall, dark mountains and the deep-toned 
seas, 

Join in this solemn, universal song. 

O listen ye, our spirits ; drink it in 



From all the air. 'Tis* in the gentle moon- 
light; 
Tis floating midst Day's setting glories; 

Night, 
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our 

ears: 
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and 

thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
By an unseen, living Hand; and conscious 

chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 
The dying hear it ; and, as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing 

souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 




The Broomstick Army 




(A splendid drill for a half-dozen pupils or the entire school.) 

%2& &5* *5* 



STANDING in rank nea'r the front side 
of the stage, the teacher gives the 
command to "present arms," "carry arms," 
"trail arms," etc. Each command consists 
of two words : the first is to indicate what 
the pupil is to do, and on the second word 
the movement is made, all acting in con- 
cert. 

The following exercises are suitable for 
this drill, and always prove very entertain- 
ing to the audience. 

Carry — Arms! — The broom is held in 
the right hand, handle upward, with the 
hand clasping the .handle where it joins the 
brush. The left hand hangs at the side. 

Present — Arms ! — Place the broom with 
the right hand in front of the center of the 
body, clasping the handle with the left hand 
above the right. Hold the broom perfectly 
perpendicular. 

Order — Arms ! — Let go the handle with 
the left hand, and carry the broom to the 
side with the right hand; then drop the 
broom to the floor. 

In place — Rest! — Grasp the handle with 
both hands, the left above the r'ght, and 
place both hands in front of the lower part 
of the breast. 

Trail — Arms ! — Grasp the handle with 
the right hand and incline it forward, the 
broom behind, resting on the floor. 

Attention — Charge! — Half face to the 
right, carrying the heel six inches to the 
rear and three inches to the right of the 
left, turning the toes of both feet slightly 
inward; at the same time drop the stick 
into the left hand, elbow against the body, 



point of stick at the height of the chin, 
right hand grasping the stick just above the 
brush and supporting it firmly against the 
right hip. 

Port — Arms! — Raise and throw the 
broom diagonally across the body; grasp it 
smartly with both hands, the right, palm 
down at the base of the stick; the left, palm 
up, thumb clasping stick; handle sloping 
to the left and crossing opposite the middle 
of left shoulder; right forearm horizontal; 
forearms and handle near the body. 

Secure — Arms ! — Advance the broom 
slightly with the right hand, turn the han- 
dle to the front with the left hand. At 
the same time change the position of the 
right hand, placing it further up the han- 
dle, drop the handle to the front, placing 
the broom where joined with the handle, 
under the right arm. 

Reverse — Arms! — Lift the broom ver- 
tically with the right hand, clasp the stick 
with the left hand ; then, with the right 
hand, grasp the handle near the brush. Re- 
verse the broom, the handle dropping to 
the front, the broom passing between the 
breast and right forearm. Press the han- 
dle under the arm with the left hand until 
the right elbow can hold it in place against 
the body; pass left hand behind the back 
and clasp the stick. 

Inspection — Arms ! — This is executed 
from the "carry arms" position. Lift the 
broom quickly with the right hand, bring- 
ing it in front of the center of the body; 
then grasp the handle with the left hand, 
placed near the chin, and hold it. 
285 



286 



TEE BROOMSTICK ARMY. 



MOVEMENTS OF ATTACK AND 
DEFENSE. ~ 

These can be executed only with open 
ranks, the pupils being placed seven or 
eight feet apart. To so place them, the 
teacher will give the order — 

Right {or Left) open Ranks — March! 
— The pupils face to the right or left, ac- 
cording to the order given, except the one 
at the extreme end of the line. The others 
march, the last of the file halting at every 
four or five steps from the one in the rear, 
until all are the same distance apart. They 
then face front. To close the rank, turn to 
the right or left and march toward the 
pupil standing at the end until halted by 
the one ahead. Then face front. 

Attention — Guard ! — At the command 
guard, half face to the right, carry back 
and place the right foot about twice its 
length to the rear and nearly the same dis- 
tance to the right, the feet at little less than 
a right angle, the right toe pointing square- 
ly to the right, both knees bent slightly, 
weight of the body held equally on both 
legs ; at the same time throw the end of the 
stick to the front, at the height of the chin, 
grasping it lightly with both hands, the 
right just above the brush, the left a few 
inches higher; the right hand in line with 
the left hip and both arms held free from 
the body and without constraint. 

Being at the Guard — Advance! — Move 
the left foot quickly forward, twice its 
length ; follow with the right foot the same 
distance. 

Retire! — Move the right foot quickly to 
the rear, twice its length ; follow with the 
left foot the same distance. 

Front — Pass! — Advance the right foot 
quickly, fifteen inches in front of the left, 
keeping right toe squarely to the right ; ad- 



vance the left foot to its relative position 
in front. 

Rear — Pass ! — Carry the left foot quickly 
fifteen inches to the rear of the right ; place 
the right foot in its relative position in rear, 
keeping the right toe squarely to the right. 

Right — Volt! — Face to the right, turn- 
ing on the ball of the left foot, at the same 
time carry the right foot quickly to its po- 
sition in the rear. 

Left — Volt! — Face to the left, turning 
on the ball of the left foot, at the same 
time carry the right foot quickly to its po- 
sition in rear. 

Right rear and left rear volts are simi- 
larly executed, facing about on the ball of 
the left foot. 

Quarte — Parry! — Hold the broom in 
front of the left shoulder with the right 
hand, handle upward, the fingers of the left 
hand on the handle, the left elbow touch- 
ing the right wrist. 

Seconde — Parry! — Move the point of 
the broom-handle quickly to the left, de- 
scribing a semi-circle from left to right, 
the left elbow in front of the body, the flat 
of the broom under the right forearm, the 
right elbow two or three inches higher 
than the right shoulder. 

Prime — Parry ! — Carry the broom to the 
left, covering the left shoulder, the handle 
downward, the left forearm behind the 
handle, the right arm in front of and above 
the eyes. 

To Guard when Kneeling. — Bring the 
toe of the left foot square in front, plant 
the right foot to the rear, kneel on the right 
knee, bending the left, hold the broom at 
an angle of 45 degrees, pointing directly 
to the front, the right hand pressed firmly 
against the side, the left hand holding the 
point of handle upward. 

This drill may be terminated by a march. 




While enacting these tableaux the children should stand as motionless as possible. The cur- 
tain should be drawn back and kept in that position for a full minute, 
and then be slowly closed. 

•5* ((5* ^* 

A CHRISTMAS PANTOMIME. 

TIME: CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Characters and Costumes. — Santa Claus, a large boy, with long, white hair and beard, 
round fur or paper cap, an enormous pack strapped upon his shoulders, from which protrude 
various toys. A light carriage-cloth may be wrapped about him. George and Fred — Two 
little boys, one quite small, dressed in short blouse and pantaloons in Scene I. In Scenes II, 
III and IV in long colored dressing-gowns. Nellie — Small girl with short dress and apron 
in Scene I. In Scenes II, III and IV in long white night-robe. Father and Mother — Large 
boy and girl in ordinary house dress, except the father, as Santa Claus in Scene III. 



Scene L 

THE children come bounding in, they 
bow to the audience, glance at the 
clock, go to a small bureau, and opening a 
drawer, extract three pairs of colored hose. 
They pin the tops together, and mounting 
chairs proceed to hang them carefully upon 
hooks prepared to receive them. Georgie 
points to the clock, expressing that it is 
nearly bed-time. Nellie claps her hands, 
and Fred jumps about and smiles his joy. 
Taking hold of hands they bow and go out. 

Scene II. 
The mother enters with the children, 
who are robed for sleep. She leads the two 
youngest, one by each hand. They pause, 
pointing to the stockings. The mother 
smiles, and toys with Fred's curls. She 
leads them to the couch, over which blan- 
kets are spread, and kneels in front of the 
couch, the children follow her example, 
with clasped hands and bowed heads. They 
remain in this attitude a short time, then 
rising, the mother proceeds to assist the 
two boys into bed, kisses them good-night, 
looks out of the window, then tucks the 
covering closer about them. She then leads 
Nellie to the crib, lifts her in, kisses her, 



arranges the chairs, closes the drawer that 
the children left open, takes one more look 
at the boys and goes out. 

Scene III. 
Santa Claus comes creeping cautiously 
in, makes a profound bow to the audience, 
then peering at the occupants of couch and 
crib to be sure they are asleep, he proceeds 
to fill the stockings. While he is thus en- 
gaged, the youngest boy (who should have 
piercing eyes) slowly raises his curly head 
from the pillow, and recognizing his father 
in the person of Santa Claus, places a 
finger significantly upon his nose, as much 
as to say, "You can't fool me." Of course, 
his movements are unnoticed by Santa 
Claus, who fills the stockings to repletion, 
places sundry other large toys, such as a 
sled, wax doll, hobby, etc., under each re- 
spective stocking, and laying a finger upon 
his lips, bows and goes out. 

Scene IV. 
The father and mother enter, and going 
up to the children, pantomime that they are 
asleep, and must not be disturbed. They 
sit. Children begin to show signs of wak- 
ing. Fred leaps to the floor with a bound, 



287 



2SS 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 



rubbing his eyes, the others follow in rapid 
succession, and mounting chairs, wrench 
the stockings from the hooks, and scatter 
their contents over the floor. — (They should 
contain nothing that would injure by fall- 
ing.) — Fred shakes his finger mischievous- 



ly at his father, then rushes up and kisses 
him heartily. The children gather up the 
toys, which they drop again, and finally, 
with arms full, they all face the audience, 
bow and go out. 



t^w ^5* &5* 



HOW TO ACT SHADOW PICTURES. 



HOME entertainments can be given all 
the year round, although it is the 
custom to reserve them almost exclusively 
for the holidays, or, at least, the season 
when cold weather prevails. Young people 
are always searching for something new, 
but they have never discovered anything 
more pleasurable than the old-time 
shadow pantomime, which affords prac- 
tical, endless amusement. 

Of all the various methods which have 
been devised for furnishing an amusing en- 
tertainment there is probably none which 
so strongly recommends itself for its sim- 
plicity, its scope for originality and for 
genuine fun as the shadow pantomime. 
To the uninitiated the effects produced are 
startling, and to all, if properly managed, 
ludicrous in the extreme. 

In the arrangement of tableaux the effect 
is mainly dependent on the judicious and 
artistic blending of colors, the expression 
of countenances and the graceful positions 
of the posers. In the pantomime, color is 
of no consequence, and facial expression is 
confined entirely to the profile. 

The first thing requisite is a white cur- 
tain or sheet to receive the shadows. Where 
there is already a stage and drop curtain 
the white sheet is arranged as an extra 
drop, care being taken to have it hang so 
as to be as tight and as free from inequali- 
ties as possible, and the larger the better. 
In adapting the exhibition to a parlor en- 



tertainment the white sheet may be 
stretched to fit exactly between sliding or 
folding doors. Before stretching the sheet 
it should be thoroughly and uniformly wet- 
ted, and then wrung out. This insures 
sharpness of outline to the shadows. 

At the front or on that side of the sheet 
appropriated to the spectators, the room 
must, during the performance, be entirely 
dark. On the stage or behind the sheet, 
where the performers are, should be only 
one bright, steady light. This must be ar- 
ranged so as to be as near to the floor as 
possible, and exactly opposite the center of 
the sheet. For parlor purposes, where 
there is gas in the room, the best con- 
trivance is a drop light, the burner of which 
(a large-sized one) is not more than two or 
three inches from the ground and placed so 
as to present the thin edge (not the flat) of 
the flame to the curtain. This renders the 
outlines all the more distinct and clearly 
defined. 

If gas is not to be had, the next best 
lamp is a tin cup filled with tallow, in the 
center of which is a cotton wick secured by 
a wire coil soldered into the middle of the 
inside of the cup, to prevent the wick from 
falling down when the tallow has melted. 
This tin lamp should be placed in the cen- 
ter of a flat dish full of sand, as a precau- 
tion against accident. 

If the curtain is large, the light should be 
placed at a distance of about five or six 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 



289 



feet, but a small curtain requires the light 
to be two or three feet farther away. The 
distance can be best ascertained by experi- 
ment. If there should be no means of clos- 
ing the sheet after or in the intervals of a 
performance, there should be a light placed 
on each side, behind the curtain, in such a 
position that no shadow will be thrown by 
it, and the center light extinguished, or ef- 
fectually shaded by the placing of some 
solid object close in front of it. 

During the performance care must be 
taken that those persons whose shadows 
are not for the moment needed, should 
stand behind the light, as entrance or exit 
is effected by jumping lightly or stepping 
sideways over the light. This produces an 
effect on the curtain just as if the shadow 
had dropped from or gone up into the ceil- 
ing. As profile is essential, the side and 
not the front or back should as far as prac- 
ticable be presented to the light, and in 
using tables or chairs let them be placed 
close to, but not touching, the curtain. The 
nearer the curtain, the clearer the shadow. 

In order to bring any object on a table 
clearly into shadow, it must be placed at 
the edge of the table nearest the light, 
otherwise the shadow of the top of the 
table will obscure the shadow of the lower 
part of the object. The table, therefore, 
for general purposes, should not be too 
wide, and may be just as well a strip of 
board from two or three feet long, and 
eight inches wide, nailed to four strips of 
wood for legs. 

An amusing deception may be practiced 
with small objects, such as cups and 
saucers, by first placing them at the edge 
farthest from the light, where they will be 
out of shadow, and by fastening a string 
to them, which can be done with a piece of 
wax, and carrying the end over the edge 
and down the leg nearest the light, through 



a small eyelet at the bottom of the leg and 
so along the ground to the back of the 
light. By this means the objects can be 
drawn across to the edge nearest the light 
and will appear to rise out of the table. 
By reversing the arrangement they appear 
to sink into the table. For this purpose 
the table should be a little wider than that 
ordinarily used. 

Many curious effects are possible. For 
instance, to make a false nose, cut a piece 
of pasteboard to the required shape, and 
split open the back edge sufficiently to al- 
low the real nose to be inserted. It can 
be fixed securely either by strings attached 
to each side and tied behind the head, or 
by gumming on with mucilage. The latter 
plan is the better, as it admits of the nose 
being apparently pulled off. When this is 
done the performer who loses his nose 
should have one hand full of sawdust, and, 
at the moment that the false nose is re- 
moved, bring that hand up in time to pre- 
vent the shadow of his natural nose ap- 
pearing on the curtain, then leaning his 
head forward and letting the sawdust drop 
gently in little gushes as it were. The blood 
will seem to drop and call forth manifesta- 
tions of deep emotion or high delight from 
the sympathizing spectators. Sawdust is 
the best thing to represent liquid in the act 
of pouring, but if the orifice be small, as 
in the case of a coffeepot or tea kettle, it 
will be liable to choke up the spout, and 
sand, thoroughly dried, will be found 
preferable. 

Any one with a moderate degree of in- 
genuity and fertility of invention, will be 
able to multiply the effects from the hints 
given, and may produce an almost endless 
variety of illusions. As an illustration of 
this, some of the most effective conjuring 
tricks may be produced with great suc- 
cess. For instance, a number of objects 



290 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 



may be cut out of cardboard, such as birds, 
animals, kettles, teapots, hats, flowers and 
plants in pots, at least twenty or more of 
which can be piled flat on the floor without 
coming above the level of the lower part of 
the shadow curtain. If these are lifted one 
by one just behind the profile of a stiff hat, 
all the amusing effects can be produced of 
an inexhaustible "tile." A full-sized hoop- 
skirt can be presented to the gaze of the 
astonished spectators. All of these objects 
can be thrown over the light, picked up by 
an assistant behind, and pushed, one by 
one, back to the hat, by means of a thin 
strip of wood kept flat on the floor, and re- 
produced as often as may be required. 

It would be well to remark, incidentally, 
that for grown-up performers the curtain 
should not be less than ten feet high. 
When the curtain is much less, smaller per- 
formers are requisite. 

Too much stress cannot be laid on thor- 
ough rehearsal. Everything should be tried 
over and over again, until perfectly accom- 
plished. Care should be taken that the acts 
or separate pieces performed during an ex- 
hibition be as distinct in details as possible, 



so as not to allow the effects produced in 
any one of them to be repeated in any other. 

Let nothing be undertaken in which 
there is the possibility of failure in any of 
the arrangements. Rather attempt little 
and do it well, than too much and bungle 
in it. Then always remember, also, that the 
individual in corpore is nothing, the shadow 
everything. Do not be too sure that this 
little action or that bit of by-play will be 
all right when the time comes; try it be- 
forehand, and in all possibility the trial will 
show how imperfect the attempt would 
have been. 

It should be remembered: That in re- 
hearsal only can the performer be permitted 
to look at his own shadow; as during the 
performance the profile must be constantly 
presented to the curtain, a position which 
will prevent the performer from witnessing 
the effect of his actions. Let everything 
be done as close to the curtain as possible, 
but never so near as to touch it. 

If these general directions are carefully 
followed the performers will not fail to 
elicit their meed of applause at the close of 
the shadow pantomime. 



c?* c5* &5* 

THE MAY-POLE. 

(This selection is one of the most effective opening acts for an evening's entertainment that 

can be imagined or devised, and fully repays the comparatively trifling amount 

of trouble and preparation necessary for its representation.) 



IT requires a pole ten feet high with a 
revolving head-piece, to which the rib- 
bons are attached; the lower end of the 
pole should be inserted and tightly wedged 
into the middle of a piece of wood to serve 
for a stand, into which a suitable hole has 
been mortised to receive the pole; the 
stand concealed by green branches and 
flowers, or in any other way that may 
suit. The pole is placed in the center of 
the stage, the stand being strongly secured 



to the floor. For outdoor purposes the pole 
may be sunk in the ground. 

Next provide eight strips of paper-mus- 
lin or ribbon about six feet longer than the 
height of the pole, and about three inches 
wide. Four of the strips should be white, 
two of them red and two blue. One end 
of each strip should be fastened firmly on 
the top of the pole, and so arranged that 
they will hang down around the pole in 
regular order, a white strip and a colored 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 



291 



strip alternately. The width of the strips, 
which we will call "banners," should be 
regulated to suit the thickness of the pole ; 
their width ought not to exceed its di- 
ameter. A wreath or garland will make a 
pretty finish for the top of the pole. For a 
small pole eight performers are sufficient; 
with a larger pole twelve or more may join, 
but always an equal number of boys and 
girls to form couples, and the total number 
divisible by four, with sufficient ribbons for 
one for each. 

It may save possible confusion to loop 
up the ends of the banners clear of the 
floor and secure them to the pole with a 
pin, each in its proper order. The pole 
and banners are now ready for use. 

The dance is here arranged for four 
couples, costumed in old holiday style. 

The girls may be dressed in short 
dresses resembling a gypsy, milk-maid, 
etc. The boys may wear knee breeches 
and blouse with a scarf around the waist, 
tied at one side. Round hats with gar- 
lands for the girls, and sailor hats for the 
boys. 

The dresses should be of very bright 
colors — with white or black rows of braid ; 
or a blue or red cambric skirt, with bands of 
plain white cotton cloth sewed in rows 
around the bottom, will look almost as well 
on the stage at night as silk; while danc- 
ing no one can distinguish the difference. 

When the curtain rises, the music should 
strike up a lively tune in well-marked 
polka time, and the four couples enter, 
dancing, in their order. The movements 
of all should be regulated by the first 
couple, on whom, therefore, a great deal 
of responsibility rests. The preliminary 
dancing may be arranged to suit the 
manager; but it must be so contrived 
that it leaves the four couples standing 
around and facing the pole (each boy 



having his partner on his right), holding 
hands so as to form a ring as large as pos- 
sible. A circle marked on the floor, hav- 
ing the pole for its center, and its circum- 
ference about six feet from the pole, will 
form a very good line for the dancers to 
stand upon. 

At a signal, the boys advance to the pole, 
keeping strict time to the music, and each 
takes a pair of banners, the left one white, 
and the right one colored; they dance 
backwards to their places, each boy hand- 
ing the colored banner to his partner, and 
retaining the white one himself. 

Another signal is given, when all, hold- 
ing their banners in their right hands, 
dance backwards, each in a line directly 
away from the pole, as far as the banners 
will conveniently allow. 

All now face to the right, and dance in 
perfect order round and round the pole. 
This movement — if executed in exact pre- 
cision, the dancers preserving the same dis- 
tance from each other, and the banners 
kept just tight enough to prevent them 
from hanging loosely — will wind the ban- 
ners around the pole, giving it the appear- 
ance of a barber's pole. 

As soon as the dancers, by the continu- 
ous winding of the banners, have got 
conveniently near to the pole and to one 
another, a signal is given, at which they 
stop; all face half round, and then dance 
in reverse direction until the banners are 
entirely unwound, and the dancers have 
resumed their starting-points, where they 
stop. At another signal all take the ban- 
ners in their left hands, the boys only face 
half round, taking their partners by the 
right hand, and then right and left all 
round, in the same manner as at the begin- 
ning of the last figure of "The Lancers," 
continuing until the banners are evenly 
braided upon the pole, and the space for 



292 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX, 



dancing becomes too confined for comfort. 
The leader should then give the signal to 
stop, as soon as the dance brings him face 
to face with his own partner. 

Another signal is then given, at which 
all face half round, bringing each boy 
opposite a new partner, whose right hand 
he takes, and the movement, thus reversed, 
is repeated in the same manner as before, 
until the banners are entirely unwound 
again. 

To succeed in this dance, it is absolutely 
necessary for all the dancers to keep exact 
time to the music, and to keep regular in- 
tervals, or distances, between each other; 
the banners will then lie evenly and sym- 
metrically on the pole, and present a very 
pretty appearance; a fearful forfeit being 



exacted from the unlucky individual who, 
by carelessness or inattention, gets his ban- 
ner out of its proper place, as this, of 
course, stops the dance entirely. The only 
way to avoid such an accident is to re- 
hearse the whole dance frequently and 
thoroughly, until each is perfect in all the 
details. 

Previous to the figure just described, 
other figures may be introduced. The re- 
volving head-piece will allow of all joining 
hands, holding the ribbons, and dancing 
around the pole to the right; stopping at 
a signal, and each couple balance to part- 
ner; then all hands around to the left. 
Various pleasing combinations would sug- 
gest themselves to the arrangers of the 
dance. 



e^* *2fr C7* 



THE MINUET. 

(This should be recited with a musical accompaniment of a "minuet." Between each stanza 
dance a few measures, and on the final line the reciter should bow him- 
self gracefully off the stage, keeping time to the music.) 



GRANDMA told me all about it, 
Told me so I couldn't doubt it, 
How she danced — my grandma danced- 
Long ago. 
How she held her pretty head, 
How her dainty skirt she spread, 
How she turned her little toes — 
Smiling little human rose ! — 
Long ago. 

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny; 
Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny! 
Really quite a pretty girl, 

Long ago. 
Bless her! why, she wears a cap, 
Grandma does, and takes a nap 
Every single day ; and yet 
Grandma danced the minuet 

Long ago. 



Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, 
Always knitting grandpa's stocking — 
(Every girl was taught to knit 

Long ago.) 
Yet her figure is so neat, 
And her way so staid and sweet, 
I can almost see her now 
Bending to her partner's bow, 

Long ago. 

Grandma says our modern jumping, 
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, 
Would have shocked the gentle folk 

Long ago. 
No — they moved with stately grace. 
Everything in proper place, 
Gliding slowly forward, then 
Slowly courtesying back again, 

Long ago. 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 



293 



Modern ways are quite alarming, 
Grandma says; but boys were charming — 
Girls and boys, I mean, of course — 

Long ago. 
Bravely modest, grandly shy — 
What if all of us should try 
Just to feel like those who met 
In the graceful minuet 

Long ago. 



With the minuet in fashion, 
Who could fly into a passion? 

All would wear the calm they wore 

Long ago. 
In time to come, if I, perchance, 
Should tell my grandchild of our dance, 
I should really like to say, 
"We did it, dear, in some such way, 

Long ago." 
— Mrs. Mary M. Dodge. 



c5* t3& *£& 

HIAWATHA. 

(The Story of Hiawatha told in verse and tableaux.) 

Directions. — Let one person recite the entire parts, standing on the stage in front of 

the curtain — stepping to the right each time a tableau is presented. In setting 

the tableau follow the poem carefully for expression and delineation. 



ii 



Part I. 

AS unto the bow the cord is, 
So unto the man is woman; 
Though she bends him, she obeys him, 
Though she draws him, yet she follows, 
Useless one without the other !" 

Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
Said within himself and pondered, 
Much perplexed by various feelings, 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

"Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis; 
"Go not eastward, go not westward, 
For a stranger, whom we know not ! 

"Bring not here an idle maiden, 
Bring not here a useless woman, 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 
Heart and hand that move together, 
Feet that run on willing errands !" 

Smiling answered Hiawatha : 
"In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the arrow-maker's daughter, 



Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands, 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people !" 

Still dissuading said Nokomis: 
"Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs ! 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us, 
There are feuds yet unforgotten, 
Wounds that ache and still may open !" 

Laughing answered Hiawatha: 
"For that reason, if no other, 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united, 
That old feuds might be forgotten, 
And old wounds be healed forever!" 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs. 

(Tableau No. I, Scene — A wigwam. 
Nokomis seated in doorway and Hiawatha 
standing near — both in Indian costume. 
Skins and guns and the usual paraphernalia 
strewn about.) 



294 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 



Part II. 
HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 

Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 

In the land of the Dacotahs, 

Making arrow-heads of jasper, 

Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 

At his side in all her beauty, 

Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 

Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 

Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 

Of the past the old man's thoughts were, 

And the maiden's of the future. 

He was thinking as he sat there, 
Thinking of the great war-parties, 
How they came to buy his arrows, 
Could not fight without his arrows. 

She was thinking of a hunter, 
From another tribe and country, 
Young and tall and very handsome, 
Who one morning in the springtime, 
Came to buy her father's arrows, 
Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
Lingered long about the doorway, 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise him, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the Falls of Minnehaha? 

(Tableau 2. Scene — A wigwam, in the 
doorway of which sits the arrow-maker 
making arrow-heads. Near him sits Laugh- 
ing Water plaiting mats. Both in Indian 
costume.) 

Part III. 
HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden, 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
And the maiden looked up at him, 
Looked up from her mat of rushes, 



Said with gentle look and accent, 
"You are welcome, Hiawatha !" 

Very spacious was the wigwam, 
Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, 
With the gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter, 
Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 
Listened while her father answered, 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered. 
Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha : 

"After many years of warfare, 
Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the O jib ways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly: 
"That this peace may last forever, 
And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women." 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely : 




8 & 




to 

•iH 

N 



0) I 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 



297 



"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; 

Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him, 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
"I will follow you, my husband !" 

This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

(Tableau 3. For scene follow poem as 
given in Part III.) 

Part IV. 
HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE. 

From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow, 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from the distance, 
Crying to them from afar off, 
"Fare thee well, O Minnehaha !" 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor, 
Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
Murmuring to himself, and saying: 
"Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Those we love, and those who love us! 
Just when they have learned to help us, 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaming feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village, 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger !" 



(Tableau 4. The arrow-maker alone, 
watching the departure of Laughing 
Water.) 

Part V. 
HIAWATHA'S RETURN. 
Pleasant was the journey homeward 
Through interminable forests, 
Over meadow, over mountain, 
Over river, hill, and hollow, 
Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
Though they journeyed very slowly, 
Though his pace he checked and slackened 
To the steps of Laughing Water. 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden ; 
Light he thought her as a feather, 
As the plume upon his head-gear; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
Bent aside the swaying branches, 
Made at night a lodge of branches, 
And a bed with boughs of hemlock, 
And a fire before the doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 

All the traveling winds went with them 
O'er the meadow, through the forest ; 
All the stars of night looked at them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber. 

Pleasant was the journey homeward ! 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart's ease; 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
"Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you !" 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
"Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
Having such a noble husband !" 
From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the branches 
Saying to them, "O my children, 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, 
Life is checkered shade and sunshine, 
Rule by love, O Hiawatha !" 



298 



EFFECTIVE TABLEAUX. 



From the sky the moon looked at them, 
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
Whispered to them, "O my children, 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble; 
Half is mine, although I follow ; 
Rule by patience, Laughing Water!" 

Thus it was they journeyed homeward. 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 



To the lodge of old Nokomis 

Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, 

Brought the sunshine of his peofne, 

Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 

Handsomest of all the women 

In the land of the Dacotahs, 

In the land of handsome women. 

(Final Tableau. The welcome home — 
Old Nokomis receiving the lovers.) 






PRETTY GROUPS FOR CHILDREN. 



DRESSED FOR THE PARTY. 

Little girl in party dress, with fan partly 

open in her hand, is looking backward over 

her shoulder. Little boy, also in party 

dress, is holding a bouquet toward the girl. 

you can't find me. 

A chair with a large shawl carelessly 
arranged over it. A child's smiling face 
peeping out from behind the drapery, while 
its body is hidden. One hand holds the 
drapery aside from the face. 

PUTTING THE CHILDREN TO BED. 

A toy bedstead in which are placed two 
or three dolls. A little girl bending over 
the bed, with her hand in position for 
tucking in the bed-clothes. 

RAISE THE GATES. 

Two small girls with hands joined and 
raised as in the game. A still smaller child 
is about passing under the "gates." His 
hands are clasped behind him, and one foot 
is raised on tip-toe. His back is toward 
the audience, and his head stretched a little 
forward. 

dolly's doctor. 

A little girl seated with a doll on her lap. 
A doll's baby-coach or cradle stands beside 
her. A boy with high silk hat and long 
coat touching the floor, with watch in one 
hand, is holding the wrist of the doll as if 
feeling its pulse. 



THE YOUNG ARTIST. 

A small boy holding a large slate, on 
which is partly drawn with chalk a ludi- 
crous outline of a little girl. Standing 
near the boy is a little girl with the solemn 
look of importance on her face befitting the 
occasion of having her portrait made. The 
boy holds his crayon on the unfinished pic- 
ture, and he is looking intently at the girl 
as if studying his subject. 

TIRED OUT. 

A child asleep in a large chair. One arm 
thrown over the arm of the chair; the 
other in his lap, having just loosened his 
hold of a picture-book, which lies open on 
his knee. His mouth is a little open, and 
his head drooped carelessly forward. 

SUNSHINE OR SHOWER. 

Three little girls with laughing faces are 
huddled closely together under a large 
dilapidated umbrella. The umbrella, held 
open behind them, forms the back-ground 
of the picture. 

THE MATCH-BOY. 

A small boy in ragged jacket, and old 
hat pushed back from his forehead, hold- 
ing a large package under his arm, and 
some boxes of matches in his extended 
hand. A little girl handsomely, dressed, 
with open pocket-book in hand and a 
pitying look on her face is holding a coin 
1 ready to give to the boy. 



i L™_ 

@ ! i Miscellaneous. Selections i 



\*%m&®*& 



e ® c®@®0TO8 




The selections in this department are intended to supplement the regular departments and are 
of such great variety that a selection can be made on any subject. 

C<7* (<£* <<7* 

THE ROUGH RIDER. 



WHERE the longhorns feed on the sun- 
cured grass, 'neath the blaze of a 
cloudless sky, 
Where the cactus crawls and the sage brush 

spreads on a plain of alkali, 
Where the lone wolf prowls and makes his 

feast on the range calf gone astray, 
Where the coward coyote yelps by night 

and slinks near the herds by day, 
Where the mountains frame the pictured 

plain with a border line of snow, 
Where the chill of death in the blizzard's 

breath falls with a sting and blow : 
There rides a man of the wild wide west, 

blest of the sun and air, 
A simple man with a face of tan, and a heart 

to do and dare. 



From rope, and quirt, and ripping gaff, and 

the strangling hackamore, 
The untamed broncho learned his will and 

a master burden bore. 
Over the hills and the gophered ground; 

still serving his direst need, 
When he rides in the peril of hoof and horn 

at the head of the night stampede. 
He is slow of speech but quick of hand, and 

keen and true of eye, 
He is wise in the learning of nature's school, 

the open earth and sky ; 
He is strong with the strength of an honest 

heart, he is free as the mountain's 

breath, 
He takes no fear of a living thing, and dy- 
ing, jests with death. 

— Richard Linthicum. 



t&& to* *2& 

LOVE'S RAILWAY. 



THE starting point on love's railway is 
"Timid-glances." From thence the 
train moves slowly, at irregular rates of 
speed, till it reaches the station of'Squeeze- 
the-hand." From "Squeeze-the-hand" to 
"Call-in-the-evening" is but a short dis- 
tance, and is made in good time. Next, on a 
down-grade, and after a quick passage, we 
reach "Moonlight- Walk ;" a long pause is 
made here, and a fresh supply of fuel 
taken aboard. Steam is then raised and 
the train hurried on to the little station of 



"Drop-letters." Then comes an up-grade 
and bad track to "Green-eye." At "Green- 
eye" some repairs are necessary before we 
make the trip, still up-grade, to "Faith-re- 
stored." Here we have a level track, and 
make the station of "Pop-the-question" 
inside of schedule time. At "Pop-the-ques- 
tion" we must put on all the steam, for it 
is a terribly stiff grade from thence up to 
"Pa's-consent." Between these two points 
more than half the accidents occur which 
happen on this much-traveled road. Hav- 



299 



300 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



ing reached "Pa's-consent," we must screw 
down the brakes and reverse the engine, 
for the decline is almost precipitous, afnd 
the speed is terrific from thence to "Tie- 
the-knot." There are occasional accidents 
between these two points, but not many. 
Sometimes a train is complete. 

From "Tie-the-knot," the train hurries 
on as fast as possible, in order not to be 
behind time in reaching the important sta- 
tion of "Buy-the-cradle." Here the route 
becomes monotonous, and little interest is 
felt in the movement of the train — unless 
it should switch off the main track and run 
out to a side-station called "Family-jar." 
From this station return trips are occa- 
sionally made as far as "Pop-the-question," 
but no farther. There are no back trains 
to "Timid-glances," or "Squeeze-the- 
hand." Accidents quite frequently happen 
to trains which run direct from "Timid- 



glances" to "Pa's-consent," without stop- 
ping at intermediate points; for in running 
back from "Pa's-consent" to "Pop-the-ques- 
tion" the train is frequently thrown from 
the track, and there occurs a great smash. 

I have traveled the road from "Timid- 
glances" to "Moonlight- walk," stopping 
for some time at the stations of "Squeeze- 
the-hand" and "Call-in-the-evening." I 
once ran a considerable distance toward 
"Pop-the-question," but a screw got loose 
and I couldn't proceed, 
r I have now the machinery in good 
working order, and am getting steam up 
for a grand rush upon "Pop-the-question" 
and "Pa's-consent." If I reach those 
points in safety, no more will be heard of 
my train until it arrives "At Home." If I 
am unable to reach that point, it will be 
safe to conclude that the effort has 
"busted" the train. 



10* t£& KC& 



MONEY MUSK. 



AH, the buxom girls that helped the 
boys — 
The nobler Helens of humbler Troys — 

As they stripped the husks with rustling 

fold 
From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold, 

By the candlelight in pumpkin bowls, 
And the gleams that showed fantastic 
holes 

In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, 
From the hermit glim set up within; 

By the rarer light in the girlish eyes 
As dark as wells, or as blue as skies. 

I hear the laugh when the ear is red 
I see the blush with the forfeit paid, 



The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, 
The cider cup that the girls have kissed, 

And I see the fiddler through the dusk 
As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!" 

The boys and girls in a double row 
Wait face to face till the magic bow 

Shall whip the tune from the violin, 
And the merry pulse of the feet begin. 

In shirt of check, and tallowed hair, 
The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair 
Like Moses' basket stranded there 

On the brink of Father Nile. 
He feels the fiddle's slender neck, 
Picks out the notes with thrum and check, 
And times the tune with nod and beck, 

And thinks it a weary while. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



301 



All ready! Now he gives the call, 
Cries, "Honor to the ladies!" All 
The jolly tides of laughter fall 
And ebb in a happy smile. 

D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, 
"First couple join right hands and swing!' 
As light as any bluebird's wing, 

"Swing once-and-a-half times round" 
Whirls Mary Martin all in blue — 
Calico gown and stockings new, 
And tinted eyes that tell you true, 

Dance all to the dancing sound. 

She flits about big Moses Brown, 

Who holds her hands to keep her down 

And thinks her hair a golden crown, 

And his heart turns over once! 
His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, 
It gives a second somerset! 
He means to win the maiden yet, 

Alas, for the awkward dunce! 

"Your stoga boot has crushed my toe;" 
"I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe!" 
"You clumsy fellow!" "Pass below!" 



And the first pair dance apart. 
Then "Forward six!" advance, retreat, 
Like midges gay in sunbeam street, 
Tis Money Musk by merry feet 

And the Money Musk by heart! 

"Three-quarters round your partner 



swing 



"Across the set!" The rafters ring, 
The girls and boys have taken wing 

And have brought their roses out! 
'Tis "Forward six!" with rustic grace, 
Ah, rarer far than — "Swing to place!" 
Than golden clouds of old point-lace 

They bring the dance about. 

Then clasping hands all — "Right and left!" 
All swiftly weave the measure deft 
Across the woof in living weft 

And the Money Musk is done! 
Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, 
Good-night, sweethearts, 'tis growing 

dusk, 
Good-night for aye to Money Musk, 

For the heavy march begun! 

— Benjamin F. Taylor. 



t£& %J& 1£& 

THE LITTLE OLD LOG HOUSE WHERE WE WERE BORN 

HEN the labors and the cares of 



Y Y day are over, 
And the shades of night are falling o'er 
the town, 
And the sleepy sparrows seek "their hiding 
places, 
And the silvery moonbeams softly shim- 
mer down, 
Oft we sit and dream about the days of 
childhood, 
When the life now waning fast was in its 
morn, 
Of the faces hid forever in the church- 
yard, 



And the little old log house where we 
were born. 

We can hear the bluebirds singing in the 
morning, 
When the golden sunrays touch the for- 
est trees; 

We can hear the catbird calling in the 
bushes, 
And can hear the humming of the busy 
bees. 

There the saucy squirrels chattered to the 
chipmunks, 



302 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



And the Bob White whistled in the wav- 
ing corn, 
And the pheasant drummed a tattoo in the 
wildwood, 

Near the little old log house where we 
were born. 

When the King of Winter swung his icy 
sceptre, 
And the trees were draped in bridal 
robes of white, 
In the snow we tracked the rabbits 
through the clearing, 
EVery boyish heart a-quiver with de- 
light, 
We'd return with hands all scratched by 
bristling briars, 
And our homespun clothes by thorns 
and bushes torn, 
To be patched and mended by the patient 
mother 
In the little old log house where we 
were born. 

There the country boys and girls would 
often gather 
For the jolly party of the wintry night, 



And the fiddler, with his hair all greased 
and shining, 
Jerked the bow across the strings with 
muscled might. 
And the old folks, too, would shake their 
feet in rapture 
O'er the solid puncheon floors so 
smoothly worn, 
While the god of love lurked near in wait 
for victims 
In the little old log house where we 
were born. 

Mid the grandeur of a mansion in the city, 
With the choicest modern comforts at 
command, 
Oft there comes into the soul an earnest 
longing 
As the silent wings of memory expand — 
Comes a wish to once more hear the wood- 
land voices, 
And to hear the song-birds greet the 
early morn, 
And to lie and dream beneath the oaks 
and maples, 
Near the little old log house where we 
were born. 



K&* t£& t<5* 



TO A MOUSE IN A TRAP. 



POOR, trembling wretch, what sad mis- 
hap 
Has brought you tight within my tra 
Had man's vile greed so clean bereft 
Your bairnies that you'd stoop to theft ? 
Ah, who'd not lay his scruples by 
That heard his babies' hungered cry? 

Still, though to mercy I incline, 

Must I the ends of law resign? 

The crust you sought full well you knew 

Belonged to me and not to you. 

But — peace ! I'll grant your frenzied plea, 

Move back the bars and set you free. 



If man one God-like spark can claim, 
Then surely mercy is its name. 
So, though you meant to steal my bread, 
I'll spend no anger on your head, 
But, w r arned by gentle mercy's flame, 
I'll let you go as poor's you came. 

As poor's you came, yet richer far 
By freedom's gift than now you are. 
Your life's to me of little worth — 
To you the grandest fact of earth ; 
So now, whilst I throw wide my door, 
Begone, wee neighbor — sin no more ! 

— Frank Putnam. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



303 



TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN, 



WHEN they reached the depot, Mr. 
Mann and his wife gazed in un- 
speakable disappointment at the receding 
train, which was just pulling away from 
the bridge switch at the rate of a mile 
a minute. Their first impulse was to run 
after it, but as the train was out of sight 
and whistling for Sagetown before they 
could act upon the impulse, they remained 
in the carriage and disconsolately turned 
their horses' heads homeward. 

Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly: 
"It all comes of having to wait for a woman 
to get ready." 

"I was ready before you were," replied 
his wife. 

"Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with 
great impatience, nearly jerking the horses' 
jaws out of place, "just listen to that! And 
I sat in the buggy ten minutes yelling at 
you to come along until the whole neigh- 
borhood heard me." 

"Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the 
provoking placidity which no one can as- 
sume but a woman, "and every time I 
started down stairs you sent me back for- 
something you had forgotten." 

Mr. Mann groaned. "This is too much 
to bear," he said, "when everybody knows 
that if I were going to Europe I would 
just rush into the house, put on a clean 
shirt, grab up my gripsack, and fly, while 
you would want at least six months for pre- 
liminary preparations, and then dawdle 
around the whole day of starting until 
every train had left town." 

Well, the upshot of the matter was that 
the Manns put off their visit to Aurora 
until the next week, and it was agreed that 
each one should get himself or herself 
ready and go down to the train and go, and 
the one who failed to get ready should be 



left. The day of the match came around in 
due time. The train was going at 10:30, 
and Mr. Mann, after attending to his busi- 
ness, went home at 9:45. 

"Now, then," he shouted, "only three- 
quarters of an hour's time. Fly around; 
a fair field and no favors, you know." 

And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged 
into this room and flew through that one, 
and dived into one closet after another with 
inconceivable rapidity, chuckling under his 
breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. 
Mann would feel when he started off alone. 
He stopped on his way up stairs to pull 
off his heavy boots to save time. For the 
same reason he pulled off his coat as he 
ran through the dining room and hung it 
on the corner of the silver closet. Then 
he jerked off his vest as he rushed through 
the hall and tossed it on the hat-rack hook, 
and by the time he had reached his own 
room he was ready to plunge into his clean 
clothes. He pulled out a bureau drawer 
and began to paw at the things like a 
Scotch terrier after a rat. 

"Eleanor," he shrieked, "where are my 
shirts?" 

"In your bureau drawer," calmly replied 
Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a 
glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a re- 
fractory crimp into place. 

"Well, but they ain't!" shouted Mr. 
Mann, a little annoyed. "I've emptied 
everything out of the drawer, and there 
isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." 

Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, 
held her head on one side, and after satis- 
fying herself that the crimp would do, re- 
plied: "These things scattered around on 
the floor are all mine. Probably you 
haven't been looking into your own 
drawer." 



304 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



"I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, 
"why you couldn't have put my things out 
for me when you had nothing else to do 
all the morning." 

"Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting her- 
self into an additional article of raiment 
with awful deliberation, "nobody put mine 
out for me. A fair field and no favors, my 
dear." 

Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a 
bull at a red flag. 

"Foul!" he shouted in malicious triumph. 
"No buttons on the neck!" 

"Because," said Mrs. Mann sweetly, 
after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting, im- 
patient man, during which she buttoned 
her dress and put eleven pins where they 
would do the most good, "because you 
have got the shirt on wrong side out." 

When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt he 
began to sweat. He dropped the shirt three 
times before he got it on, and while it was 
over his head he heard the clock strike 
ten. When his head came through he saw 
Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of 
her necktie. 

"Where are my shirt studs?" he cried. 

Mrs. Mann went out into another room 
and presently came back with gloves and 
hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the 
boxes he could find in and around the bu- 
reau. Then she said, "In the shirt you 
just pulled off." 

Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. 
'Mann hunted up and down the room for 
his cuff-buttons. 

"Eleanor," he snarled, at last, "I believe 
you must know where those cuff-buttons 
are. 

"I haven't seen them," said the lady, set- 
tling her hat; "didn't you lay them down 
on the window-sill in the sitting-room last 
night?" 

Mr. Mann remembered, and he went 



down stairs on the run. He stepped on 
one of his boots and was immediately 
landed in the hall at the foot of the stairs 
with neatness and despatch, attended in 
the transmission with more bumps than 
he could count with Webb's Adder, and 
landed with a bang like the Hell Gate ex- 
plosion. 

"Are you nearly ready, Algernon?" 
sweetly asked the wife of his bosom, lean- 
ing over the banisters. 

The unhappy man groaned. "Can't you 
throw me down the other boot?" he asked. 

Mrs. Mann, pityingly, kicked it down to 
him. 

"My valise?" he inquired, as he tugged 
at the boot. 

"Up in your dressing-room," she an- 
swered. 

"Packed?" 

"I do not know; unless you packed it 
yourself, probably not," she replied, with 
her hand on the door knob; "I had barely 
time to pack my own." 

She was passing out of the gate when 
the door opened, and he shouted, "Where 
in the name of goodness did you put my 
vest? It has all my money in it!" 

"You threw it on the hat-rack," she 
called. "Good-bye, dear." 

Before she got to the corner of the street 
she was hailed again. 

"Eleanor! Eleanor! Eleanor Mann! 
Did you wear off my coat?" 

She paused and turned, after signaling 
the street car to stop, and cried, "You 
threw it in the silver closet." 

The street car engulfed her graceful 
form and she was seen no more. But the 
neighbors say that they heard Mr. Mann 
charging up and down the house, rushing 
out of the front door every now and then, 
shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. 
Mann, to know where his hat was, and 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



305 



where she put the valise key, and if she 
had his clean socks and undershirts, and 
that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. 
And when he went away at last, he left the 
kitchen door, the side door, and the front 
door, all the down-stairs windows and the 
front gate, wide open. 

The loungers around the depot were 
somewhat amused, just as the train was 
pulling out of sight down in the yards, to 
see a flushed, enterprising man, with his 



hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and 
necktie flying, and his gripsack flapping 
open and shut like a demented shutter on 
a March night, and a door key in his hand, 
dash wildly across the platform and halt 
in the middle of the track, glaring in de- 
jected, impotent, wrathful mortification at 
the departing train, and shaking his fist at 
a pretty woman who was throwing kisses 
at him from the rear platform of the last 
car. 



T 



HESE days of cool September, 

An' hazy night an' morn, 
Set me thinkin' o' the punkins 

Among the rustlin' corn; 
An' I'm back again with mother, 

A lookin' in her eyes, 
An' thinkin' they are sweet'nin', 

Her famous punkin pies. 



t5* &5* c£* 

MOTHER'S PUNKIN PIES. 

Why all I've larned of natur, 

An' human natur's wiles, 
An' the rugged path tu glory, 

I owe tu mother's smiles, 
As she helped us plant the punkin 

An' corn, 'neath April skies, 
An' told me how the seasons 

Ripened her punkin pies. 



Fer when from out the oven, 

A crispy golden brown, 
The crust in flaky scollops, 

Like lace upon a gown, 
She used tu take an' set 'em 

In rows tu feast my eyes, 
I jest thanked God fer mother, 

An' mother's punkin pies. 



I tell you there ain't nuthin' 

Upon this livin' earth, 
A man kin larn tu treasure 

Of everlastin' worth, 
Like things his mother taught him, 

When his big an' honest eyes 
Was watchin' her contrivin' 

Them golden punkin pies. 



t5* c5* c5* 



BREVITIES. 



THE man who insists upon conversa- 
tion whether you will or no was on 
the train with me between Detroit and Chi- 
cago. This time, as is often the case, he 
was one of those dear fellows, the com- 
mercial travelers. I was reading when he 
took a seat opposite and began to talk. 
"Traveling?" 
"Yes." 



"What line?" 

"Paper." 

"Wall?" 

I gave up. As an example of the laconic 
in conversation it reminded me of a story 
told me once by Max O'Rell. It was of a 
Scotsman stopping before a shop door in 
a Scotch village. He took a bit of cloth in 
his hand. " 'Oo' ?" he asked. 



306 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



"Aye, W," said the shopkeeper. 






"Aye, a' W." 
"A' ae W?" 
"Aye, a' ae W." 

Which, being interpreted, would be re 
corded in ordinary English. "Wool?" 

t(5* «<5* «<£• 

CASEY AT THE BAT 

IT looked extremely rocky for the Mud- 
ville nine that day ; 
The score stood two to four, with but an 

inning left to play. 
So, when Cooney died at second, and Bur- 
rows did the same, 
A pallor wreathed the features of the pa- 
trons of the game. 



'Yes, wool." 

'All wool?" 

'Yes, all wool." 

'All the same quality of wool ?" 

'Yes, all the same wool." 

— Moses P. Handy. 



A straggling few got up to go, leaving there 

the rest, 
With that hope which springs eternal within 

the human breast, 
For they thought: "If only Casey could 

get a whack at that," 
They'd put up even money now, with Casey 

at the bat. 

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so 

did Blake, 
And the former was a puddin', and the 

latter was a fake. 
So on that stricken multitude a deathlike 

silence sat, 
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's 

getting to the bat. 

But Flynn let drive a "single," to the won- 
derment of all, 

And the much-despised Blakey "tore the 
cover off the ball." 

And when the dust had lifted, and they 
saw what had occurred, 

There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn 
a-huggin' third. 



Then, from the gladdened multitude went 

up a joyous yell, 
It rumbled in the mountain tops, it rattled 

in the dell ! 
It struck upon the hillside and rebounded 

on the flat; 
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to 

the bat. 



There was ease in Casey's manner as he 

stepped into his place, 
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a 

smile on Casey's face; 
And, when responding to the cheers, he 

lightly doffed his hat, 
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 

'twas Casey at the bat. 

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he 

rubbed his hands with dirt, 
Five thousand tongues applauded when he 

wiped them on his shirt; 
Then, when the writhing pitcher ground 

the ball into his hip, 
Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer 

curled Casey's lip. 

And now the leather-covered sphere came 
hurtling through the air, 

And Casey stood a-watchin' it in mighty 
grandeur there. 

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball un- 
heeded sped; 

"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike 
one," the umpire said. 



miscellaneous: 



30? 



From the benches, black with people, there 
went up a muffled roar, 

Like the beating of storm waves on the 
stern and distant shore; 

"Kill him ! kill the umpire !" shouted some- 
one on the stand; 

And it's likely they'd have killed him had 
not Casey raised his hand. 

With a smile of Christian charity great 

Casey's visage shone; 
He stilled the rising tumult, he made the 

game go on; 
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more 

the spheroid flew; 
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire 

said, "Strike two." 

"Fraud !" cried the maddened thousands, 

and the echo answered "Fraud!" 
But one scornful look from Casey and the 

audience was awed ; 



They saw his face grow stern and cold, 
they saw his muscles strain, 

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let the 
ball go by again. 

The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his 

teeth are clenched in hate. 
He pounds with cruel vengeance his bat 

upon the plate ; 
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and 

now he lets it go, 
And now the air is shattered by the force 

of Casey's blow. 

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the 
sun is shining bright, 

The band is playing somewhere, and some- 
where hearts are light ; 

And somewhere men are laughing, and 
somewhere children shout, 

But there is no joy in Mudville ; mighty 
Casey has struck out ! 

— Ernest L. Thayer. 



t&fc t&& tcfr 

OLD MART AND ME. 



HIT'S been so monstrous long ago it 
seems jes like a dream, 
Sence we was only chunks er boys — a 

rough-an'-tumble team — 
That useter dam the spring-house branch 

an' set up flutter wheels, 
An' work so dead in arnest that we often 

missed our meals, 
An' sometimes fit en quarreled till we war 
a sight to see, 
An' frequent we got licked for that, 
Old Mart an' me. 

Time come we had to go to school — some 

furder en a mile — 
But what we larnt, ontil this day, jis sorter 

makes me smile; 



'Twas little mo' than nuthin', en we got 

it, inch by inch, 
While the teacher lammed it to us, till we 

hed the mortal cinch 
On everything the old man knowed, plum 
to the rule of three, 
But frequent we got licked for that, 
Old Mart an' me. 

We was raised on farms adjinin', with 

plenty all aroun', 
But still we'd skip off, after dark, an' pole 

away to town, 
Three mile, up hill, ef 'twar a foot, an' 

jine the boys up there, 
To eat sardines, and smoke seegyars, an* 

have a sort of "tare," 



308 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Or rob a neighbor's million patch — for dev- 
iltry, you see — 
But frequent we got licked for at, 
Old Mart an' me. 

At spellin' bees and singin' school, thar's 

whar we useter shine; 
We couldn't spell a little bit, ner sing so 

mighty fine, 
But when it come to courtin' gals an' seein' 

of 'em home, 
Why we was thar, an' you hear me, 'twas 

honey in the comb, 
Then Widder Kane got married, an' we 
raised a shivaree — 
But didn't we get licked for that, 
Old Mart an' me. 

When finally the war broke loose, an' Mart 

an' me went in, 
One time we struck a scrimmage that was 

livelier en sin; 



We had it, back an' forrards, twict, acrost 

a cotton patch — 
You never see'd, in all yo' life, a hotter 

shootin' match — 
I got a plug clean through my leg, an' him 
one in the knee, 
So, we got sorter licked at that, 
Old Mart an' me. 

We've had some ups and downs in life, and 

growin' kinder old, 
With hearts as warm as ever, an' they will 

never git cold, 
So fur as him and me's consarned ; not even 

over thar, 
When all are called to answer, at the final 

jedgement bar, 
For friendship's close to holiness, and 
blamed ef I can see, 
How we'll git licked a bit for that, 
Old Mart an' me. 
— William Lightfoot Visscher. 



%&r9 ft£>* %&& 

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN 



WHERE the tide crept up in a stealthy 
way 
By the reefs and hollows of Table Bay 
The dwellings rude of the Dutchmen lay. 

And the night approached with a sign of 

storm, 
For the winds blew cold and the winds blew 

warm, 
And cloud-rack high in the skies would 

form. 

And off to the right, in the lone cape's lee, 
A vessel surged in the wallowing sea, 
And the whitecaps gleamed and the winds 
rose free. 

'Twas the brig that carried the Holland 
mails 



Through the summer's calm or the winter 

gales, 
And her pennant streamed o'er her tawny 

sails. 

A giant she was in a giant's grip, 

For the dark seas clung to the struggling 

ship, 
And the salt brine down from the shrouds 

did drip. 

And her sails were wet with the glancing 
spray 

As she loomed through the gathering dark- 
ness gray, 

And her bow was headed for Table Bay. 

But the sea beat back with a sodden force 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



109 



The Dutchman's ship in its wandering 

course, 
And the thunder's mockery bellowed 

hoarse. 

And a woman waited beside a tree, 

In the moan of the winds and the branches' 

dree, 
For a letter to come that night by sea. 

Then shouted the mate to the skipper there, 
'Turn back," so sounded his trumpet's 

blare, 
"Or our seams will split and our masts 

stand bare." 

But Vanderdecken drew his blade, 
And the steely sheen that its flashing made 
Struck light from the all-surrounding 
shade. 

And his anger stood in his bristling hair 
While his furious sword-stroke smote the 

air 
As he stood alone in defiance there. 

And he swore to weather the stubborn gaie 
With its rattling volleys of icy hail, 
If it stripped from the masts each tattered 
sail; 

And to beat around for that very bay, 
And where was the one who could say him 

nay — 
"By God! if he sailed till the judgment 

day." 

Then the mist grew dense and the light- 
ning flashed, 

And a red bolt down on the tree-top 
crashed, 

Where a woman stood by the shore sea- 
lashed. 

And the thunder tolled in the blackening 
clouds, 



And the waves swept by in hurrying 

crowds, 
And a wan light paled in the creaking 

shrouds ; 

While a scream came by from the far-off 

shore 
That was hushed and drowned by the mad 

waves' roar, 
And the vessel passed and was seen no 

more. 

And now on that selfsame fateful night, 
If the seas be calm and the skies are bright, 
The ocean giveth a mystic sight. 

For a shadow-ship and a shadow-frame 
Goes by at twelve through the moonlight 

flame, 
Passing as suddenly as it came. 

And a whisper thrills through the salt- 
sweet breeze, 

While a heart-throb stirs in the moving 
seas 

And the tide fast out to the ocean flees. 

And a fine wind stirs in the tree-top high 
That ghostly stands in the starlit sky, 
And a sound wells up like a woman's sigh. 

But when on that night the clouds turn 
black 

And the huge waves follow the storm 
king's track, 

And the skies are heavy with tempest- 
wrack, 

Why, then is seen, as a spectre gray, 
'Mid the shimmering mist and lightning- 
play, 
A vessel headed for Table Bay. 

And the ship, like a lover, keeps her troth 
To her skipper's pledge — 'twas a pledge 
for both — 



310 



MISCELLANEOUS, 



And the wild winds echo the Dutchman's 
oath, 

And a wraith waits there by the haunted 
tree, 



While the storm wails on and the wind 

blows free, 
For a letter which comes not in from the 

sea. 

— Ernest McGaifey. 



THE MEN WHO LOSE. 



HERE'S to the men who lose! 
What though their work be e'er so 
nobly planned 
And watched with zealous care, 
No glorious halo crowns their efforts 
grand ; 
Contempt is failure's share. 

Here's to the men who lose ! 
If triumph's easy smiles our struggles greet, 

Courage is easy then ; 
The king is he who, after fierce defeat, 

Can up and fight again. 

Here's to the men who lose ! 
The ready plaudits of a fawning world 
Ring sweet in victor's ears ; 



The vanquished's banners never are un- 
furled — 
For them there sound no cheers. 

Here's to the men who lose! 
The touchstone of true worth is not suc- 
cess: 
There is a higher test — 
Though fate may darkly frown, onward to 
press, 
And bravely do one's best. 

Here's to the men who lose! 
It is the vanquished's praises that I sing, 

And this the toast I choose : 
"A hard-fought failure is a noble thing. 
Here's a luck to those who lose !" 

— G. H. Broadharst. 






THE STREAMS OF LIFE. 



THESE Streams of Life that ever flow 
Through earth's unnumbered living 
things — 
Whence come they, whither do they go, 
And where are their exhaustless springs ? 

Our little lives are here to-day, 

Where, when these throbbing hearts are 
still, 
To me there comes no certain ray 

Of light, the dark abyss to fill. 

And do these fountains outward flow, 
Wherever sweeps the Almighty's wand, 

Farther than human thought can go, 
Through the Measureless Beyond? 



Oh, tell me why, if there are not, 

On far more glorious worlds than ours, 

Beings of broader, deeper thought, 
Of nobler form, and mightier powers ? 

Or, is it only on the earth, 

This little speck of love and strife, 

That thought and being have their birth, 
And matter quickens into life? 

Oh, Mysteries of Mysteries, 

Who shall the vast unknown explore ? 
Who sail the illimitable seas 

That stretch beyond this earthly shore? 

And having scanned the realms of space, 
The countless worlds that circle there, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



311 



Shall come again, and face to face, 
To us the wondrous truth declare. 

Go forth ye workers of the brain, 

Pierce the dark veil that hides the un- 
known ; 

There's much of truth and good to gain, 
There's much of fallow ground unsown. 

A life of idle luxury 

For earnest, restless, thinking mind 
I cannot think would even be 

A happy life in heaven to find. 

Search then and toil, even though ye fail, 
Bold delvers in the mine of thought, 



To look beyond the parting veil ; 
Your labor shall not be for naught. 

But give me still where'er I be, 
All Nature's beauty bathed in light, 

The glory of earth, sky and sea, 
The solemn majesty of night. 

For there's no breath of common air, 
No ray of light from star or sun, 

No shade of beauty anywhere 

But whispers of the Almighty One. 

His law supreme rules every place — 
The invisible dust that floats around, 

The mighty orbs that roll through space, 
All life, all motion, light and sound. 



%7* t<5* 10^ 



ALWAYS CONSULT YOUR WIFE. 



A BLUEBIRD sat on a farmhouse 
shed 
And wagged his tail as he scratched his 

head, 
While he puzzled his brain to find the best 
And safest spot to build his nest. 
A "cruel monster," this bluebird, he 

No counsel would take from Mrs. B b, 

He did not allow her in aught to have 

choice, 
Nor in family matters to raise up her voice. 

The consequence was that his wife's small 

head 
Was very firm set against all that he said; 
But he was the master, and "willy or nilly," 
His orders she followed — no matter how 

silly. 
"Chick-a-dee ! I have it! The very thing! 
We will go where the swallows built last 



spring 



"You have it, indeed!" sneered Mrs. 
B bj 



"You'd do no such thing if you listened to 

me! 
"Why not build in the shed?" "Hush! 

hush, my dear! 
You've nothing to do but sit quiet and 

hear." 
So sloth prevailed, and they quietly took 
A swallow's nest in the chimney nook. 
"Three eggs?" Mr. Bluebird hopped out 

in the sun 
To laugh at the trick he'd played. "What 

fun!" 
But as he was smoothing his little brown 

vest, 
Came a sound which soon made him fly 

back to the nest. 

The swallows had come, and their fierce, 
flashing eyes 

Showed the anger they felt, as well as sur- 
prise. 

After some consultation they urged the re- 
quest 



312 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



That Blue and his wife would vacate their 

nest. 
But gentleman Blue knew the old-time saw, 
Possession is fully nine-tenths of the law; 
And he laughed in their faces, and winked 

his left eye, 
As much as to say, "You are green, not I." 

But Mrs. B b, with an angry burst, 

Said, "I told you so from the ' very first ; 
And I won't stay here another day." 
So out she flew and hurried away. 



"Good riddance!" cried Bluebird. "To go 

you are free, 
But they won't find it easy to get rid of 

me!" 

Alas ! for the folly that revels in sin ; 
The swallows with mud came and coffined 

him in. 

Moral : 
Oh, man who wouldst flourish and prosper 

in life, 
In matters of moment consult with thy 

wife. 



%£& i&& %3* 



SAND. 



I OBSERVED a locomotive in the rail- 
road yards one day — 
It was waiting in the round-house where 

the locomotives stay; 
It was panting for the journey, it was 

coaled and fully manned, 
And it had a box the fireman was filling 
full of sand. 

It appears that locomotives cannot always 
get a grip 

On their slender iron pavement, 'cause the 
wheels are apt to slip; 

And when they reach a slippery spot, their 
tactics they command, 

And to get a grip upon the rail, they sprin- 
kle it with sand. 

It's about this way with travel along life's 
slippery track, 

If your load is rather heavy and you're al- 
ways sliding back ; 

So, if a common locomotive you completely 
understand, 

You'll supply yourself, in starting, with a 
good supply of sand. 



If your track is steep and hilly and you 
have a heavy grade, 

And if those who've gone before you have 
the rails quite slippery made, 

If you ever reach the summit of the upper 
tableland, 

You'll find you'll have to do it with a lib- 
eral use of sand. 

If you strike some frigid weather and dis- 
cover to your cost 

That you're liable to slip on a heavy coat of 
frost 

Then some prompt, decided action will be 
called into demand, 

You'll slip way to the bottom if you haven't 
any sand. 

You can get to any station that is on life's 
schedule seen, 

If there's fire beneath the boiler of ambi- 
tion's strong machine; 

And you'll reach a place called Flushtown 
at a rate of speed that's grand, 

If for all the slippery places you've a good 
supply of sand, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



313 



LORRAINE, LORREE, 



ARE you ready for your steeplechase, 
Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree? 
You're booked to ride your capping race 

to-day at Coulterlee, 
You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all 

the world to see, 
To keep him straight, and keep him first, 
and win the run for me." 

She clasped her new-born baby, poor Lor- 
raine, Lorraine, Lorree, 

"I can not ride Vindictive, as any man 
might see, 

And I will not ride Vindictive with this 
baby on my knee ; 

He's killed a boy, he's killed a man, and 
why must he kill me ?" 

"Unless you ride Vindictive, Lorraine, 
Lorraine, Lorree, 

Unless you ride Vindictive to-day at Coul- 
terlee 

And land him safe across the brook and 
win trie blank for me, 



It's you who may keep your baby, for you'll 
get no keep from me." 

"That husbands could be cruel," said Lor- 
raine, Lorraine, Lorree, 

"That husbands could be cruel I have 
known for seasons three; 

But oh! to ride Vindictive while a baby 
cries for me 

And be killed across the fence at last for 
all the world to see?" 

She mastered young Vindictive — oh! the 

gallant lass was she ! — 
And she kept him straight and won the 

race, as near as near could be; 
But he killed her at the brook against a 

pollard willow tree. 
Oh ! he killed her at the brook — the brute ! 

— for all the world to see, 
And no one but the baby cried for poor 

Lorraine, Lorree. 

— Charles Kingsley. 



t£5 «,$* 



LIKE OTHER MEN. 



OH, varied are the changes, half unno- 
ticed, all unsung, 
That have passed across this world of ours 

since you and I were young, 
When all the sea, and sky, and earth, and 

stars that gemmed the night, 
Were ours by eminent domain of youth's 

unchallenged right — 
Old comrade of my boyhood, do you e'er 

recall the joys 
Of that glorious, care-free time of life when 

you and I were boys ? 

We knew, perchance, that other ships o'er 
favoring seas had sailed, 



And of the harbor of success had fallen 

short, and failed 
To reach the golden shores they sought, but 

no such luckless fate 
Along the future's glittering waves for us 

could lie in wait — 
For all the good things of this world but 

waited our command 
And all there was for us to do was occupy 

the land. 

We dreamed of great and noble deeds we'd 
do as life sped on, 

When honor, fame and glory, and un- 
bounded wealth were won ; 



314 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



For other men, perhaps, might be a life of 

toil and grind, 
The grip of poverty might seize upon the 

grovelling mind — 
But as for us, our shining path lay upward 

and across 
The everlasting hills of Hope, where no 

man suffers loss ! 

Ah, well, we've drifted on until the even- 
ing shades lie long 



Across the afternoon of life, and all the 
happy throng 

Of boys that used to play with us upon 
the schoolhouse green, 

Have laid their tired heads to rest, and 
passed to the unseen, 

And you and I, old comrade, have suc- 
ceeded much the same 

As the hundred thousand other men un- 
known to wealth or fame. 

— Clara A. Trask. 



t&& ty* c*7* 

CANADIAN CAMPING SONG. 



A WHITE tent pitched by a glassy 
lake, 
Well under a shady tree, 
Or by rippling rills from the grand old 
hills, 
Is the summer home for me. 
I fear no blaze of the noontide rays, 

For woodland glades are mine, 
The fragrant air, and that perfume rare, — 
The odor of forest pine. 

A cooling plunge at the break of day, 

A paddle, a row or sail; 
With always a fish for a midday dish, 

And plenty of Adam's ale; 



With rod or gun, or in hammock swung, 
We glide through the pleasant days; 

When darkness falls on our canvas walls, 
We kindle the camp-fire's blaze. 

From out the gloom sails the silv'ry moon, 

O'er forests dark and still; 
Now far, now near, ever sad and clear, 

Comes the plaint of whip-poor-will; 
With song and laugh, and with kindly 
chaff, 

We startle the birds above; 
Then rest tired heads on our cedar beds, 

And dream of the ones we love. * 

— James D. Edgar. 



^5* c^* t^* 

ON THE SKAGUAY TRAIL. 



GOD pity the babe on the icy trail, 
In the arms of those who loved it 
best, 
Yet failed to shield from the withering 
gale 
That claimed its prey at the mother's 
breast. 
On the summit they mourned a lifeless 
child, 
Sobbing their grief to the mocking storm, 



Then left to the snows and the trackless 
wild 
The cache that cradled the frozen form. 
The argonaut pauses with moistened 
cheek 
And tear-dimmed eyes, who would never 
quail 
In the battle's front, for the strong grow 
weak, 
Where baby sleeps on the Skaguay trail. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



315 



A youth with his face toward the great 
divide, 
With steady purpose that would not fail 
Of the hidden gold on the other side, 
For which he climbed up the mountain 
trail- 
But the river, his fondest dreams to mock, 
Hollowed a bed 'neath the yielding wave, 
Then shattered his form on the tide and 
rock, — 
And instead of treasure he found a grave. 
In the home where is dearth of song and 
laugh, 
Where echoes a stricken mother's wail, 
And the father yearns for his broken 
staff — 
An ended life on the Skaguay trail. 

He was three score years, with the heart 
of youth, 



A hero's courage, an athlete's strength, 
Who had compassed the fearful pass, for- 
sooth, 
Would traverse the mighty Yukon's 
length. 
But a messenger came, unvoiced, unsought, 
Whose presence darkened the golden 
star, 
He called, but the stalwart answered not, 
For speech was hushed and the soul 
afar; 
And she, who had periled her life with 
him, 
Who climbed the summit without avail, 
Turned wearily back through the shadows 
dim, 
Back from the grave on the Skaguay 
trail. 

— Mary Byron Reese. 



v5* <<5* <<5* 



DOMINION DAY. 



Tidelis." 



WITH feu-de-joie and merry bells, 
and cannon's thundering peal, 
And pennons fluttering on the breeze, and 

serried rows of steel, 
We greet, again, the birthday morn of our 

young giant's land, 
From the Atlantic stretching wide to far 

Pacific strand; 
With flashing rivers, ocean lakes, and 

prairies wide and free, 
And waterfalls, and forests dim, and moun- 
tains by the sea; 
A country on whose birth-hour smiles the 

genius of romance, 
Above whose - cradle brave hands waved 

the lily-cross of France; 
Whose infancy was grimly nursed in peril, 

pain and woe ; 
Whose gallant hearts found early graves 

beneath Canadian snow ; 



When savage raid and ambuscade and fam- 
ine's sore distress, 

Combined their strength, in vain, to crush 
the dauntless French noblesse; 

When her dim, trackless forest lured again 
and yet again, 

From silken courts of sunny France, her 
flower, the brave Champlain. 

And now, her proud traditions boast four 
blazoned rolls of fame, — 

Crecy's and Flodden's deadly foes our an- 
cestors we claim; 

Past feud and battle buried far behind the 
peaceful years, 

While Gaul and Celt and Briton turn to 
pruning-hooks their spears ; 

Four nations welded into one, — with long 
historic past, 

Have found, in these our western wilds, 
one common life, at last; 



16 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Through the young giant's mighty limbs, 
that stretch from sea to sea, 

There runs a throb of conscious life — of 
waking energy. 

From Nova Scotia's misty coast to far Co- 
lumbia's shore, 

She wakes, — a band of scattered homes and 
colonies no more, 

But a young nation, with her life full beat- 
ing in her breast, 

A noble future in her eyes — the Britain of 
the West. 

Hers be the noble task to fill the yet un- 
trodden plains 

With fruitful, many-sided life that courses 
through her veins ; 

The English honor, nerve, and pluck, — the 
Scotsman's love of right, — 

The grace of courtesy of France, — the Irish 
fancy bright, — 

The Saxon's faithful love of home, and 
home's affections blest; 

And, chief of all, our holy faith, — of all 
our treasures best. 

A people poor in pomp and state, but rich 
in noble deeds, 

Holding that righteousness exalts the peo- 
ple that it leads; 

As yet the waxen mould is soft, the open- 
ing page is fair ; 



It rests with those who rule us now, to 
leave their impress there, — 

The stamp of true nobility, high honor, 
stainless truth; 

The earnest quest of noble ends; the gen- 
erous heart of youth; 

The love of country, soaring far above dull 
party strife; 

The love of learning, art, and song — the 
crowning grace of life; 

The love of science, soaring far through 
Nature's hidden ways; 

The love and fear of Nature's God — a na- 
tion's highest praise. 

So, in the long hereafter, this Canada shall 
be 

The worthy heir of British power and Brit- 
ish liberty; 

Spreading the blessings of her sway to her 
remotest bounds, 

While, with the fame of her fair name, a 
continent resounds. 

True to her high traditions, to Britain's 
ancient glory 

Of patient saint and martyr, alive in death- 
less story ; 

Strong, in their liberty and truth v . to shed 
from shore to shore 

A light among the nations, till nations are 
no more. 



o5* «£* <5* 



A GENTLEMAN. 



HE could not be so poor that he would 
hate the rich, 
Nor yet so rich that he despised the 
poor. 
He is so brave and just, that not a turn 
nor hitch, 
In all of fortune's winding way, could 
lure 
Him to an act or thought of vile in- 
gratitude. 



He's true unto himself, and thus to every 
man 
And has that courage, high, and grand, 
and strong, 
That comes with kindness, and with honor 
leads the van 
To help the right, and sternly punish 
wrong ; 
To strip injustice till it shivers, shamed 
and nude. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



317 



He seeks the culture that, refining, gives a 
grace 
And comfort to himself and those around. 
He has no ostentation, nor would he abase 
Himself to thus become a monarch 
crowned. 
Clean comes his thought and from his 
hand a brother's grip. 



He comes from anywhere — aye, e'en from 
Nazareth — 
From north and south, and from the east 
and west; 
He comes as comes the cool and grateful 
breeze's breath. 
He need not be an angel from the blest, 
He might be, thus, too good for man's 
companionship. 



?(5* c^* " «^* 



A FATHER'S ADVICE TO HIS SON, 



REMEMBER, my son, you have to 
work. Whether you handle a pick 
or a pen, a wheelbarrow or a set of books, 
digging ditches or editing a paper, ringing 
an auction bell or writing funny things, 
you must work. If you look around, you 
will see the men who are the most able 
to live the rest of their days without work 
are the men who work the hardest. Don't 
be afraid of killing yourself with overwork. 
It is beyond your power to do that on the 
sunny side of thirty. They die sometimes, 
but it is because they quit work at six p. m., 
and don't get home until two a. m. It's the 
interval that kills, my son. The work gives 
you an appetite for your meals; it lends 



solidity to your slumbers ; it gives you a 
perfect and grateful appreciation of a holi- 
day 

t There are young men who do not work, 
but the world is not proud of them. It does 
not know their names, even; it simply 
speaks of them as "old So-and-so's boys." 
Nobody likes them ; the great, busy world 
doesn't know that they are there. So find 
out what you want to be and do, and take 
ofT your coat and make a dust in the world. 
The busier you are, the less harm you will 
be apt to get into, the sweeter will be your 
sleep, the brighter and happier your holi- 
days, and the better satisfied will the world 
be with you. — R. J. Burdette. 



i£fr t&& %&& 

THE MAN THAT MARRIED. 



THE sun's heat will give out in ten 
million years more," 

And he worried about it ; 
"It will sure give out then, if it doesn't 
before," 

And he worried about it ; 
It would surely give out, so the scientists 

said 
In all scientific books that he read, 
And the whole mighty universe then would 
be dead, 

And he worried about it. 



"And some day the earth will fall into the 
sun," 

And he worried about it ; 
"Just as sure, and as straight as if shot 
from a gun," 

And he worried about it ; 
"When strong gravitation unbuckles her 

straps 
Just picture," he said, "what a fearful col- 
lapse ! 
It will come in a few million ages, perhaps," 
And he worried about it. 



318 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



"The earth will become much too small for 
the race," 

And he worried about it ; 

"When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for 
pure space," 

And he worried about it ; 

"The earth will be crowded so much, with- 
out doubt, 

That there'll be no room for one's tongue 
to stick out, 

And no room for one's thoughts to wander 

about," 

And he worried about it. 

"The Gulf Stream will curve, and New 
England grow torrider," 

And he worried about it ; % 
"Than was ever the climate of southern- 
most Florida," 

And he worried about it. 
"The ice crop will be knocked into small 

smithereens, 
And crocodiles block up our mowing ma- 
chines, 
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes 
and beans," 

And he worried about it. 



"And in less than ten thousand years, 
there's no doubt," 

And he worried about it ; 
"Our supply of lumber and coal will give 
out," 

And he worried about it ; 
"Just when the Ice Age will return cold and 

raw, 
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms out- 
stretched in awe, 
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw," 
And he worried about it. 

His wife took in washing (a dollar a day), 

He didn't worry about it ; 
His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer 
to pay, 

He didn't worry about it, 
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub- 
dub 
On the washboard drum in her old wooden 

tub 
He sat by the stove and he just let her 
rub, 

He didn't worry about it. 
— Sam Walter Foss. 



tSfc t<5* «<7* 



THE EGGS THAT NEVER HATCH. 



THERE'S a young man on the cor- 
ner, 
Filled with life and strength and 
hope, 
Looking far beyond the present, 

With the whole world in his scope. 
He is grasping at to-morrow, 

That phantom none can catch; 
To-day is lost. He's waiting 
For the eggs that never hatch. 

There's an old man over yonder, 

With a worn and weary face, 
With searching anxious features, 



And weak, uncertain pace. 
He is living in the future, 

With no desire to catch 
The golden Now. He's waiting 

For the eggs that never hatch. 

There's a world of men and women, 

With their life's work yet undone, 
Who are sitting, standing, moving 

Beneath the same great sun; 
Ever eager for the future, 

But not content to snatch 
The Present. They are waiting 

For the eggs that never hatch. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



319 



EVERYTHING pleased our neighbor 
Jim, 

When it rained 
He never complained, 
But said wet weather suited him. 

"There never is too much rain for me. 
And this is something like," said he. 

When earth was dry as a powder mill, 
He did not sigh 
Because it was dry, 
But said if he could have his will 
It would be his chief supreme delight 
To live where the sun shone day and 
night. 

When winter came with its snow and ice, 

He did not scold 

Because it was cold, 
But said : "Now this is real nice ; 
If ever from home I'm forced to go, 



CONTENTED JIM. 

I'll move up North with the Esquimau." 



A cyclone whirled along its track, 
And did him harm — 
It broke his arm, 
And stripped the coat from off his back ; 
"And I would give another limb 
To see such a blow again," said Jim. 

And when at length his years were told, 
And his body bent, 
And his strength all spent, 
And Jim was very weak and old: 

"I long have wanted to know," he said, 
"How it feels to die" — and Jim was dead. 

The Angel of Death had summoned 
To heaven, or — well, 
I cannot tell; 
But I knew that the climate suited Jim; 
And cold or hot, it mattered not — 
It was to him the long-sought spot. 



^5* t«5* 5^* 



THE TRUE 

WHAT is a gentleman? Is it a thing 
Decked with a scarf-pin, a chain, 
and a ring, 
Dressed in a suit of immaculate style, 
Sporting an eye-glass, a lisp, and a smile? 
Talking of operas, concerts, and balls, 
Evening assemblies and afternoon calls, 
Sunning himself at "At Homes" and ba- 
zars, 
Whistling mazurkas, and smoking cigars? 

What is a gentleman ? Say, is it one 
Boasting of conquests and deeds he has 

done? 
One who unblushingly glories to speak 
Things which should call up a blush to his 

cheek ? 
One, who, whilst railing at actions unjust, 



GENTLEMAN. 

Robs some young heart of its pureness and 

trust ; 
Scorns to steal money, or jewels, or wealth, 
Thinks it no crime to take honor by stealth ? 

What is a gentleman? Is it not one 
Knowing instinctively what he should shun, 
Speaking no word that can injure or pain, 
Spreading no scandal and deep'ning no 

stain ? 
One who knows how to put each at his 

ease, 
Striving instinctively always to please; 
One who can tell, by a glance at your cheek, 
When to be silent, and when he should 

speak ? 

What is a gentleman? Is it not one 
Honestly eating the bread he has won, 



320 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Living in uprightness, fearing his God, 
Leaving no stain on the path he has trod, 
Caring not whether his coat may be old, 
Prizing sincerity far above gold, 
Recking not whether his hand may be hard, 
Stretching it boldly to grasp its reward ? 



What is a gentleman ? Say, is it birth 



Makes a man noble, or adds to his worth? 
Is there a family tree to be had 
Spreading enough to conceal what is bad? 
Seek out the man who has God for his 

Guide 
Nothing to blush for, and nothing to hide ; 
Be he a noble, or be he in trade, 
This is the gentleman Nature has made. 



sc* C$* &?* 



WHY SHE DIDN'T STAY IN THE POOR-HOUSE. 



NO, I didn't stay in the poor-house, and 
this is how, you see, 
It happened at the very last, there came a 

way for me. 
The Lord, he makes our sunniest times 

out of our darkest days, 
And yet we fail most always to render His 

name the praise. 
But, as I am goin' to tell you, I have a 

home of my own, 
And keep my house, an' — no, I'm not a- 

livin' here alone. 
Of course you wonder how it is, an' I'm 

a-goin' to tell 
How, though I couldn't change a jot, the 

Lord done all things well. 
I've spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Re- 
becca, "that lives out west;" 
An' Isaac, not far from her, some twenty 

miles at best; 
An' Susan; — but not a single word I said 

about another one, — 
Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was 

our wayward son, 
An' while his father was livin' he ran away 

to sea, 
An' never sent a word or line to neither 

him nor me. 
Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides 

in silence there, 
An' what we can freely speak of is never 

so hard to bear. 



But I couldn't talk of Georgie — he was too 

dear to blame, — 
It seemed as if I couldn't bear even to hear 

his name. 
But when I took my pauper's place in that 

old work-house grim, 
My weary heart was every day a-cryin' out 

for him. 
For I'd tried the love of the others, and 

found it weak and cold, 
An' I kind o' felt if Georgie knew that I 

was poor and old, 
He'd help to make it better, and try to do 

his part, 
For love and trust are last of all to die in 

a woman's heart. 
An' he used to be always tellin' when he 

was a man and strong, 
How he'd work for father and mother; 

and he never done no wrong, 
Exceptin' his boyish mischief, an' his run- 

nin' off to sea; 
So somehow now, out of them all, he 

seemed the best to me. 
And so the slow days wore along, just as 

the days all go, 
When we cling to some wild fancy that all 

the time we know 
Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till 

'twould seem 
That the dream alone is real, and the real 

but a dream. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



321 



And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my 

faith in him, 
And thought of him the long days 

through, until my eyes were dim. 
And my old heart ached full sorely to think 

that never again 
I should see my boy until we stood before 

the Judge of men. 
When one day a big brown-bearded man 

came rushin' up to me, 
Savin', "Mother! my God! have they put 

you here?" An' then I see 
'Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, 

and I knowed nothin' more, 
'Cause I got faint, and but for him, I'd 

fallen on the floor. 



They say he swore some awful words — I 

don't know — it may be; 
But swear or not, I know my boy's been 

very, very good to me. 
An' he's bought the old home back again, 

an' I've come here to stay, 
Never to move till the last move — the final 

goin' away. 
An' I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie's 

good an' kind, 
An' the thought of bein' a pauper ain't 

wearin' on my mind; 
But still I never can forget until my dyin' 

day, 
That they put me in the poor-house 'cause 

I was in the way. 



SAVING MOTHER. 



THE farmer sat in his easy chair 
Between the fire and the lamplight's 
glare; 
His face was ruddy, and full and fair. 
His three small boys in the chimney nook 
Scanned the lines of a picture book; 
His wife, the pride of his home and heart, 
Baked the biscuit and made the tart, 
Laid the table and steeped the tea, 
Deftly, swiftly, silently; 
Tired and weary, and weak and faint, 
She bore her trials without complaint, 
Like many another household saint — 
Content, all selfish bliss above, 
In the patient ministry of love. 

At last, between the clouds of smoke 
That wreathed his lips, the husband spoke: 
"There's taxes to raise, and int'rest to pay, 
And if there should come a rainy day, 
'Twould be mighty handy, I'm boun' to 

say, 
T' have sumpthin' put by. For folks must 

die, 



An' there's funeral bills an' gravestuns to 

buy — 
Enough to swamp a man, purty nigh. 
Besides, there's Edward and Dick and Joe 
To be provided for when we go. 

"So'f I was you, I'll tell you what I'd du; 
I'd be savin' of wood as ever I could — 
Extry.fire don't du any good — 
I'd be savin' of soap, an' savin' of ile, 
And run up some candles once in a while; 
I'd be rather sparin' of coffee an' tea, 

For sugar is high, 

And all to buy, 
And cider is good enough for me. 
I'd be kind o' careful about my clo'es 
And look out sharp how the money goes — 
Gewgaws is useless, nater knows; 

Extry trimmin' 

'S the bane of women. 

"I'd sell off the best of the cheese and 

honey, 
And eggs is as good, nigh about, 's the 

money; 



322 



miscellaneous: 



And as to the carpet you wanted new — 
I guess we can make the old one du. 
And as for the washer, an' sewin' machine, 
Them smooth-tongued agents so pesky 

mean, 
You'd better get rid of 'em, slick an' clean. 
What do they know about women's work? 
Du they kalkilate women was born to 

shirk?" 

Dick and Edward and Little Joe 
Sat in the corner in a row. 



They saw the patient mother go, 

On ceaseless errands to and fro; 

They saw that her form was bent and 

thin, 
Her temples gray, her cheeks sunk in, 
They saw the quiver of her lip and chin — 
And then, with a warmth he could not 

smother, 
Outspoke the youngest, frailest brother — 
"You talk of savin' wood and ile 
An' tea an' sugar, all the while, 
But you never talk of savin' mother!" 

«(?• %&& %&& 

KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 



R 



UN? Now you bet you; I rather guess 



so, 



But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, 

boy, whoa, 
No, you wouldn't think so to look at his 

eyes, 
But he is badger blind, and it happened 

this wise: 
We lay low in the grass on the broad plain 

levels 
Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown 

bride. 
"Forty full miles if a foot to ride, 
Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
Of red Comanches are hot on the track 
When once they strike it. Let the sun go 

down 
Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old 

Revels, 
As he peered at the sun lying low on his 

back, 
Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked 

at his steed, 
And sprang to his feet, and glanced swift- 
ly around, 
And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear 

to the ground — 
Then again to his feet and to me, to my 

bride, 



While his eyes were like fire, his face like 

a shroud, 
His form like a king, and his beard like a 

cloud, 
And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown 

from a reed — 
"Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to 

steed, 
And speejd, .if ever -for life you would 

speed; 
And ride for your lives, for your lives you 

must ride, 
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire; 
And feet of wild horses hard flying before, 
I hear like a sea breaking high on the 

shore ; 
While the buffalo come like the surge of 

the sea, 
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on 

us three 
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in 

his ire." 

We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and 

rein, 
Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched 

them over again, 
And again drew the girth, cast aside the 

macheer, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



323 



Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from 
its fold, 

Cast aside the catenas red and spangled 
with gold, 

And gold-mounted Colt's, true compan- 
ions for years; 

Cast the silken serapes to the wind in a 
breath, 

And so bared to the skin sprang all haste 
to the horse, 

As bare as when born, as when new from 
the hand 

Of God, without word, or one word of 
command, 

Turned head to the Brazos in a red race 
with death, 

Turned head to the Brazos with a breath 
in the hair 

Blowing hot from a king leaving death in 
his course; 

Turned head to the Brazos with a sound in 
the air 

Like the rush of an army, and a flash in 
the eye 

Of a red wall of fire reaching up to the 
sky, 

Stretching fierce in pursuit of a black roll- 
ing sea 

Rushing fast upon us as the wind sweep- 
ing free 

And afar from the desert, blew hollow and 
hoarse. 

Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let 

fall, 
Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or 

low call 
Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the 

plain 
So steady and still, leaning low to the 

mane, 
With the heel to the flank and the hand 

to the rein, 



Rode we on, rode we three, rode we nose 
and gray nose, 

Reaching long, breathing loud, like a crev- 
iced wind blows, 

Yet we broke not a whisper, we breathed 
not a prayer, 

There was work to be done, there was 
death in the air, 

And the chance was as one to a thousand 
for all 

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady 

mustang 
Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the 

arid earth rang, 
And the foam from the flank and the croup 

and the neck 
Flew around like the spray on z. storm- 
driven deck. 
Twenty miles! thirty miles! — a dim distant 

speck — 
Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos 

in sight, 
And I rose in my seat with a shout of de- 
light. 
I stood in my stirrup and looked to my 

right, 
But Revels was gone; I glanced by my 

shoulder 
And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head 

drooping 
Herd on his breast, and his naked breast 

stooping 
Low down to the mane as so swifter and 

bolder 
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed 

fire. 

To right and to left the black buffalo came, 
A terrible surf on a red sea of flame 
Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, 

reaching higher; 
And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, 
The monarch of millions, with shaggy 

mane full 



324 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with 
desire 

Of battle, with rage and with bellowing 
loud 

And unearthly, and up through its lower- 
ing cloud 

Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hid- 
den fire, 

While his keen crooked horns through the 
storm of his mane 

Like black lances lifted and lifted again; 

And I looked but this once, for the fire 
licked through, 

And he fell and was lost, as we rode two 
and two. 

I looked to my left, then, and nose, neck, 

and shoulder 
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my 

thighs ; 
And up through the black blowing veil of 

her hair 
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous 

eyes 
With a longing and love, yet a look of 

despair, 
And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke 

fold her, 
And flames reaching far for her glorious 

hair. 
Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears 

fell 
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's 

swell 
Did subside and recede and the nerves fall 

as dead. 

Then she saw sturdy Pache still lorded his 
head, 

With a look of delight, for this Pache, you 
see, 

Was her father's, and once at the South 
Santa Fe 

Had won a whole herd, sweeping every- 
thing down 



In a race where the world came to run 

for the crown; 
And so when I won the true heart of my 

bride — 
My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, 
And child of the kingly war-chief of his 

tribe — 
She brought me this steed to the border 

the night 
She met Revels and me in her perilous 

flight 
From the lodge of the chief to the north 

Brazos side; 
And said, so half-guessing of ill as she 

smiled, 
As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 
The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should 

pursue 
I should surely escape without other ado 
Than to ride, without blood, to the north 

Brazos side, 
And await her, and wait till the next hol- 
low moon 
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely 

and soon 
And swift she would join me, and all would 

be well 
Without bloodshed or word. And now, 

as she fell 
From the front, and went down in the 

ocean of fire, 
The last that I saw was a look of delight 
That I should escape — a love — a desire — 
Yet never a word, not a look of appeal, 
iLest I shlould reach hand, should stay 

hand or stay heel 
One instant for her in my terrible flight. 

Then the rushing of fire around me and 
under, 

And the howling of beasts and a sound as 
of thunder — 

Beasts burning and blind and forced on- 
ward and over, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



325 



As the passionate flame reached around 

them and wove her 
Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they 

died — 
Till they died with a wild and a desolate 

moan, 
As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown 

stone. 
And into the Brazos — I rode all alone — 
All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, 
And blind and bare and burnt to the skin, 
Then, just as the terrible sea came in, 
And tumbled its thousands hot into the 

tide, 
Till the tide blocked up and the swift 

stream brimmed 
In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 

Sell Pache, — blind Pache? Now, mister, 

look here, 
You have slept in my tent and partook of 

my cheer 



Many days, many days, on this rugged 

frontier, 
For the ways they were rough and Co- 

manches were near; 
But you'd better pack up, sir! that tent is 

too small 
For us two after this! Has an old moun- 
taineer, 
Do you bookmen believe, got no tum-tum 

at all? 
Sell Pache? You buy him! A bag full of 

gold! 
You show him! Tell of him the tale I 

have told! 
Why, he bore me through fire, and is 

blind, and is old! 
Now pack up your papers and get up and 

spin, 
And never look back. Blast you and your 

tin! 

— Joaquin Miller. 



& 



THEY ALL SANG ANNIE LAURIE. 

An incident of the Crimean war. 



GIVE us a song !" the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said, 
"We storm the forts to-morrow; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon: 
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 



They sang of love, and not of fame; 

Forgot was Britain's glory: 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

1 Voice after voice caught up the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 
Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak 
But, as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier's cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset's embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 



326 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



And once again a fire of hell 

Rained on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory; 



And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing ; 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 



<£ & 



"GOT STRIPES DOWN HIS LEGS." 



I USED to boss him in the store 
And oversee his work, 
For I had charge of one whole floor 

And he was just a clerk. 
To-day it's different, if you please; 

We've changed respective pegs, 
I'm private in the ranks — and he's 
Got stripes 
Down 
His 
Legs. 

The girls, whose smiles were once for me, 
Now scarce vouchsafe a glance, 

Such great attraction can they see 
In decorated pants. 

The erstwhile clerk no longer my 
Indulgence humble begs. 



I'm down below. He's up on high, 
With stripes 
Down 
His 
Legs. 

It's "Private Jones, do this and that." 

In haste I must bestir — 
To Jenkins, on whom oft I've sat, 

I'm told to answer "Sir!" 
One born to rule, it's come to pass 

Of woe I drink the dregs — 
I'm in the army with, alas ! 
No stripes 
Down 
My 
Legs. 

— Edwin L. Sabin. 




f£& 1&& *£& 

SOMEBODY. 



SOMEBODY'S courting somebody 
Somewhere or other to-night ; 
Somebody's whispering to somebody, 
Somebody's listening to somebody, 
Under this clear moonlight. 

Near the bright river's flow, 
Running so still and slow, 
Talking so soft an d low, 
She sits with somebody. 

Pacing the ocean's shore, 
Edged by the foaming roar, 



Words never used before 
Sound sweet to somebody. 

Under the maple tree 
Deep though the shadow be, 
Plain enough they can see, 
Bright eyes has somebody. 

No one sits up to wait, 
Though she is out so late, 
All know she's at the gate, 
Talking with somebody. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



327 



Tiptoe to parlor door, 
Two shadows on the floor, 
Moonlight, reveal no more, 
Susy and somebody. 

Two sitting side by side, 
Float with the ebbing tide, 



Thus, dearest, may we glide 
Through life," says somebody. 



Somewhere, somebody 
Makes love to somebody 
To-night. 



— Anonymous. 



& & & 



AN UNCOMPLAINING MAN. 



HIS hoss went dead an' his mule went 
lame; 
He lost six cows in a poker game ; 
A hurricane came on a summer's day, 
An' carried the house whar he lived away ; 
Then a earthquake come when that was 

gone, 
An' swallowed the land that the house stood 

on! 
An' the tax collector, he come roun' 
An' charged him up for the hole in the 

groun' ! 
An' the city marshal — he came in view, 
An' said he wanted his street tax, too ! 



Did he moan an' sigh ? Did he set an' cry 

An' cuss the hurricane sweepin' by? 

Did he grieve that his ole friends failed to 

call 
When the earthquake come an' swallowed 

all? 
Never a word of blame he said, 
With all them troubles on top his head ! 
Not him! — He climbed to the top of the 

hill— 
Whar standin' room wuz left him still, 
An', barin' his head, here's what he said: 
"I reckon it's time to git up an' git ; 
But, Lord, I hain't had the measles yit!" 
— Philander Johnson, 



c5* t<$* «<$• 



TWO WOMEN'S LIVES. 



TWO babes were born in the selfsame 
town 
On the very same bright day; 
They laughed and cried in their mother's 
arms 
In the very selfsame way, 
And both were pure and innocent 

As falling flakes of snow, 
But one of them lived in the terraced 
house 
And one in the street below. 

Two children played in the selfsame town, 
And the children both were fair, 

But one had curls brushed smooth and 
round, 
The other had tangled hair ; 



The children both grew up apace, 

As other children grow, 
But one of them lived in the terraced 
house 

And one in the street below. 

Two maidens wrought in the selfsame 
town, 
And one was wedded and loved, 
The other saw through the curtain's 
part 
The world where her sister moved; 
And one was smiling, a happy bride, 

The other knew care and woe, 
For one of them lived in the terraced 
house 
And one in the street below. 



328 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Two women lay dead in the selfsame 
town, 

And one had had tender care, 
The other was left to die alone 

On her pallet all thin and bare, 
And one had many to mourn her loss, 

For the other few tears would flow, 
For one had lived in the terraced house 

And one in the street below. 



If Jesus, who died for the rich and the 
poor 

In wondrous holy love, 
Took both the sisters in his arms 

And carried them above, 
Then all the differences vanished quite, 

For in heaven none would know 
Which of them lived in the terraced house 

And which in the street below. 



c^* ^* t&* 



BEDTIME. 



WHEN my good-nights and prayers 
are said, 
And I am warm tucked up in bed, 
I know my guardian angel stands 
And holds my head between his hands. 

I cannot see his gown of light, 
Because I keep my eyes shut tight, 



For if I open them I know 
My pretty angel has to go. 

But while my eyes are shut I hear 
His white wings rustling very near; 
I know it is his darling wings, 
Not mother folding up my things. 



t&* c5* t<5* 



THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER. 



YOU have quizzed me often and puzzled 
me long; 
You have asked me to cipher and spell; 
You have called me a dolt if I answered 
wrong, 
Or a dunce if I failed to tell 
Just when to say He and when to say lay, 

Or what nine-sevenths may make, 
Or the longitude of Kamtschatka bay, 
Or the I-forget-what-it's-name lake, 
So I think it's about my turn, I do, 
To ask a question or so of you." 

The schoolmaster grim he opened his eyes, 
But he said not a word for sheer surprise. 

"Can you tell what 'phen-dubs' means? I 
can. 

Can you say all off by heart 
The onery, twoery, hicgory ann? 

Or tell 'commons' and 'alleys' apart? 



Can you fling a top, I would like to know, 
Till it hums like a bumble-bee? 

Can you make a kite yourself that will go 
Most as high as the eye can see, 

Till it sails and soars, like a hawk on the 



And 



wing, 
the birds 
string?" 



come and light on the 



The schoolmaster grim he looked demure, 
But his mouth was twitching, I'm almost 
sure. 

"Can you tell where the nest of the oriole 
swings, 
Or the color its eggs may be? 
Do you know the time when the squirrel 
brings 
Its young from their nest in the tree? 
Can you tell when the chestnuts are ready 
to drop, 




'What shall I write?" 




"I've got it." 
THE LETTER TO PAPA.— PLATE I. 




'I send a thousand kisses.' 




"Now, I'll mail it." 
THE LETTER TO PAPA.— PLATE II. 



MISCELLANEOUS, 



331 



Or where the best hazelnuts grow? 
Can you climb a tree to the very tip-top, 

And gaze, without trembling, below? 
Can you swim and dive, can you jump and 
run, 

«£* <£* <£» 



Or do anything else we boys call fun?" 



The master's voice trembled as he replied: 
"You are right, my lad, I'm the dunce," 
and sighed. 



HIS BEST PRAYER. 



THE proper way for a man to pray," 
Said Deacon Lemuel Keys, 
"And the only proper attitude, 

Is down upon his knees." 
"No; I should say the way to pray," 

Said Rev. Dr. Wise, 
"Is standing straight, with outstretched 
arms, 
And rapt and upturned eyes." 

"Oh, no, no, no!" said Elder Slow, 

"Such posture is too proud/ 
A man should pray with eyes fast closed 

And head contritely bowed." 



"It seems to me his hands should be 

Austerely clasped in front, 
With both thumbs pointed toward 
ground," 

Said Rev. Dr. Hunt. 



the 



"Las' year I fell in Hodges' well 

Head first," said Cyrus Brown, 
"With both my heels a-stickin up, 

My head a-pintin' down, 
An' I made a prayer right then an' there — 

Best prayer I ever said, 
The prayin'est prayer I ever prayed — 

A-standin' on my head." 



t,5* «<5* *£• 



"ARIZONY RAY." 



THE wildest cowboy on the range was 
that same Arizony Ray, 
Neck deep in every crookedness that come 

a-driftin' 'round his way, 
As quick as lightnin' with the gun an' 

mighty handy with the rope, 
An' ridin' bronks he never had no equal on 

the Western slope. 
An' independent sort o' chap, but true as 

steel to all his pals, 
'Bout halfway liked and halfway feared by 

all the purty rancher gals, 
An' when he'd flood his inner works with 

cactus-brier booze we found 
Twas safest to keep out o' reach o' that ol' 

gun he packed around. 

His daily work o' punchin' cows the kid 
was never knowed to shirk, 



He follered Injuns with a vim that showed 

he sort o' liked the work, 
And when we'd overtake the reds and 

bump again a nasty fight, 
That same young Arizony Ray'd seem a- 

bilin' with delight. 
His cup o' joy was alius full when he was 

shootin' up a town, 
An' somethin' alius overtook the man that 

tried to call him down; 
Was dumped in jail a hundred times, but 

managed to git out agin 
With jest the same affection fur the trail 

o' devilment an' sin. 

One day a letter come to him, an' with it 

came a photygraph, 
An* as he read the letter through us chaps 

that knowed him had to laugh 



332 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



To see him cry, but changed our tune 
when with his head at humble poise, 

He handed us the pictur card and said, 
"That's my ol' mother, boys!" 

Then came a most surprisin' change — per- 
haps a dozen times a day 



He'd read that letter through an' through 
in eager, lovin' sort o' way, 

An' when we'd go to bunk at night it 
seemed to us surprisin' odd 

To see him down upon his knees a-tryin' 
to make up with God. 



&5* fc5* 5*5* 

LESSONS FROM SCRIPTURE FLOWERS. 

The assignment of parts here given can be changed to suit different cases and such 

other classifications adopted as may seem best. Singing could also be introduced 

very effectively, especially in connection with "The Rose of Sharon," 

by the use of H. R. Palmer's hymn by that name. 



The Lily of the Field. 
First Boy — 

This flower that Jesus bids us consider 
was the Chalcedonian Lily, very common 
in Palestine, with scarlet flowers, like those 
that grow wild in our pastures. 
First Girl — 

In upland meadows bright flowers I see, 
Like lilies that blossomed in Galilee; 
When I see them shining in gold and red, 
I think of the words that Jesus said: 

TWO IN CONCERT — 

Consider the lilies of the field, how they 
grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; 
and yet I say unto you that even Solomon, 
in all his glory, was not arrayed like one 
of these. — Matt, vi; 28, 29. 

The Rose of Sharon. 
Second B. — 

This flower was not a rose, but the nar- 
cissus, like our white flowers of that name. 
This is the flower of which Solomon 
speaks when he says: "I am the Rose of 
Sharon." 

Second G. — 

In garden-borders, in rows of white, 
The dear narcissus is spring's delight; 
This lovely blossom in odors sweet, 
The promise of old still seems to repeat: 



Two in con. — 

The desert shall rejoice and blossom as 
the rose. — Isa. xxxv: 2. 

The True Rose. 
Third B.— 

This grows in Palestine. The hills of 
Jerusalem are covered with beautiful pink, 
white, and yellow roses. 
Third G. — 

When lovely roses, in colors fair, 
Are budding and blossoming everywhere, 
By the brook of the fields in the bright 

June day, 
Their voices to the children shall sweetly 

say: 

TWO IN CON. 

Hearken unto me, ye children, and bud 
forth as a rose, growing by the brool 
the fields. — Ecclesiasticus xxxix: 13. 

The Almond Tree. 
Fourth B. — 

This is the wakeful tree, because it is the 
first to awake from winter's sleep and put 
on its beautiful garment of rose-colored 
blossoms. 
Fourth G. — 

The flowering almond, we call it now; 
Spring's brightest, earliest blooming 
bough. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



333 



The prophet found it a symbol true. 
That God would hasten his work to do. 
Two IX con. — 

And I said, I see a rod of an almond 
tree. Then said the Lord unto me, Thou 
hast well seen, for I will hasten my word 
to perform it. — Jer. i: n, 12. 

Mint, Anise, Cummin. 
Fifth B. — 

These plants had small, fragrant seeds, 
and were those that we now call by the 
same name. 
Fifth G. — 

In fragrant gardens I love to go, 
Where mint and anise and cummin grow; 
But, oh! how sad it would be to hear 
Such words as these from the Master, dear. 
Two in con. — 

Ye pay tithe of mint, and anise, and 
cummin, and have omitted the weightier 
matters of the law, — judgment, mercy and 
faith. — Matt, xxiii: 23. 

The Mustard Tree. 
Sixth B. — 

This was not our common mustard 
plant. It is a shrub, still found by the sea 
of Galilee. The seed is small but the shrub 
grows so large that birds can, and do, 
lodge in the branches. 
Sixth G. — 

Sometimes I stop by the way to heed 
The simple bloom of the mustard seed; 



And think how, from humblest things that 

grew, 
Such lessons as this our Teacher drew. 
Two in con. — 

The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain 
of mustard seed, which a man took, and 
sowed in his field; which, indeed, is the 
least of all seeds; but when it is grown, 
it is the greatest among herbs, and becom- 
eth a tree, so that the birds of the air come 
and lodge in the branches thereof. — Matt. 
xiii: 31, 32. 

Seventh G. — 

When winter goes by and spring is here, 
And over the earth the flowers appear, 
While birds are singing and breezes play, 
These beautiful words again we say: 
Two in con. — 

For lo! the winter is past; the rain is 
over and gone. The flowers appear on the 
earth, 
is come. — Cant, ii 

Eighth G. — 

When spring and summer have hastened 

on, 
And beautiful buds and blooms are gone, 
With fragrant breath, as they pass away, 
The autumn blossoms to us shall say: 

All in con. — 

The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, 
but the Word of the Lord endureth for- 
ever! — Isa. xl: 8. 

— M. B. C. Slade. 



The time of the singing of birds 
11, 12. 



g5* t£* *£& 

WHAT ABOUT THE HIRED MAN? 



THEY talk about the servant girl, sug- 
gesting this and that, 
To make her life more happy in the man- 
sion or the flat. 
They say to teach her music and to :lti- 
vate her mind, 



And never, never speak to her in voice 

that is unkind; 
But — what about the hired man, 

Flired man, tired man — 
Frequently the fired man — 

What about his life? 



334 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



No one ever sighs for him; 
Books nobody buys for him, 
Or intimates that pies, for him, 
Should ever know a knife. 

The ladies sip Young Hyson at the Eso- 
teric clubs, 
And weep about the hardships of the maid 

who bakes or scrubs; 
They advocate a fashion-plate upon the 

kitchen wall, 
And "higher aspirations" they propose for 
one and all; 
But — what about the hired man, 

Hired man, tired man — 
Soon or late the fired man — 

What about his lot? 
No one ever thinks of him, 
Or sends out fancy drinks for him, 



Or talks of fashion's kinks for him, 
Or gives to him a thought. 

They write to all the papers on the "ser- 
vant question" now, 
And Mrs. Talkso Tellum-What gets up 

and makes a bow, 
And shows the ladies how to act, the ser- 
vant girls to suit, 
And all her hearers vow that her remarks 
are "awful cute." 
But — what about the hired man, 

Hired man, tired man — 
And after while the fired man — 

Who's concerned for him? 
He must keep his hustle on, 
And toil, and tug, and rustle on, 
With work to test his muscle on, 
Or else his chance is slim. 



£ j8 



THROUGH GRANDFATHER'S SPECTACLES. 



YOUR boy's come home from school, 
Mariar, a college graduate, 
An' what he knows and means to do I 'low 

is somethin' great; 
But I have been observin' him ; and I ain't 

much impressed 
That when he's pressed the button the 

world'll do the rest. 
Fer thinkin' which I don't blame him, I 

blame his pa and ma, 
They've stuffed him with sech notions an' 

made his word a law. 
Course rockin' in affection's cradle's mighty 

pleasant to us all, 
jl only hope he won't rock out, — he'd be so 

apt to feel the fall. 
I only hope he won't rock out, yet I am free 

to say 
He's apt to git a jolt as '11 wake him up 

some day! 



Your boy's not bad, Mariar, I hope you'll 

not git mad 
At a few plain truths about the peart, high- 

steppin' lad: 
He's jammed his head so full o' isms, 

ologies, an' stuff 
'At when he come to cram in sense there 

wasn't room enuff. 
You know as well, Mariar, as you know this 

chair I've alius sat in, 
That he'll ne'er keep books in Hebrew nor 

buy nor sell in Latin ; 
That the German name o' jimpson weed 

ain't worth as much to him 
As a knowledge of good English which is 

in his case slim ; 
That all he knows about the stars in 

heavenly orbits fixed 
Don't count for nothin' longside o' how his 

spellin's mixed, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



335 



It is a common thing, Mariar, this fault that 

parents get in, 
This educatin' young folks up till head ex- 
pansion sets in; 
This givin' them an outside polish, which 

strivin' to attain, 
Has led in no few instances to softenin' of 

the brain. 
The world ne'er stopped on their account 

and ne'er would it, I ween, 
If half its pampered youth was taken down 

a notch or two while green ; 
And mayhap such a course pursued with 

them a spell, 
TJd work a revolution, tho' it's pretty hard 

to tell. 

I wouldn't have you think, Mariar, that I'm 

set agin a college ; 
There's nothin' that we need and lack so 

much as knowledge. 
But we cannot have it all nor even have the 

heft, 



And what most we want to learn is to keep 
from gittin' left ! 



Then lend your ears my student friends to 

what I have to say, 
And heed it, too, perhaps it may come 

handy in its way : 
Remember my life's e'en most lived while 

yours is jest begun, 
And you ain't s'posed to be so sure not 

ever'thing's for fun. 

If you will take advices which I have alius 

given, 
The first thing you will learn is how to 

make a hones' livin' ; 
And havin' got the infermation you need 

for ever' day 
Then you can hustle to and git whatever 

else'll pay. 

— Emily F. Smith. 



t&™ C7* fcT* 

CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 



Chorus. 

WE are the little flowers, coming with 
the spring; 
If you listen closely, sometimes you'll hear 
us sing. 

The Honeysuckle — Red: 

I am the honeysuckle, with my drooping 

head ; 
And early in the springtime I don my dress 

of red. 
I grow in quiet woodlands, beneath some 

budding tree; 
So when you take a ramble, — just look for 

me. 

The Dandelion — Yellow: 

I am the dandelion, yellow, as you see, 



And when the children see me they shout 

for glee. 
I grow by every wayside, and when I've 

had my day, 
I spread my wings so silvery, — and fly 

away. 

The Forget-me-not — Blue: 

When God made all the flowers, He gave 
each one a name, 

And, when the others all had gone, a little 
blue one came 

And said in trembling whisper: "My name 
has been forgot." 

Then the good Father called her, "Forget- 
me-not." 



336 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



The Fern — Green: 

A fern, the people call me, I'm always 

clothed in green, 
I live in every forest; you've seen me oft, 

I ween. 
Sometimes I leave the shadow, to grow 

beside the way 



You'll see me as you pass, — some nice, 
fine day. 

Chorus. 
We are the little flowers, coming with the 

spring; 
If you listen closely, sometimes you'll hear 



us smsf. 



SAY there ! P'r'aps 
Some on you chaps 
Might know Jim Wild? 
Well, no offense: 
Thar ain't no sense 
In gittin' riled ! 

Jim was my chum 

Up on the Bar; 
That's why I come 

Down from up thar, 
Lookin' for Jim. 
Thank ye, air ! you 
Ain't of that crew — 

Blest if you are! 

Money? — not much; 

That ain't my kind ; 
I ain't no such. 
Rum ? — I don't mind, 

Seein' it's you. 

Well, this yer Jim, 
Did you know him? — 
Jess 'bout your size; 
Same kind of eyes? — 
Well, that is strange ; 
Why, it's two year 
Since he came here, 
Sick, for a change. 

Well, here's to us ; 
Eh? 



<^% ^9 1&* 

JIM. 



The deuce you say ! 

Dead?— 
That little cuss? 

What makes you star' — 

You over thar? 

Can't a man drop 

'S glass in yer shop 

But you must rar'? 
It wouldn't take 
Denied much to break 

You and your bar. 

Dead! 
Poor — little — Jim ! 
— Why, there was me, 
Jones, and Bob Lee, 
Harry and Ben — 
No-account men; 
Then to take him! 
Well; thar — Good-bye — 

No more, sir — I — 

Eh? 
What's that you say? — 
Why dern it! — sho! 
No? Yes! By Jo! 

Sold! 
Sold! Why, you limb, 
You ornery, 
Derned old 
Long-legged Jim! 

— Bret Harte. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



337 



JOE. 



WE don't take vagrants in, sir, 
And I am alone to-day, 
Leastwise, I could call the good man — 
He's not so far away. 

You are welcome to a breakfast — 
I'll bring you some bread and tea; 

You might sit on the old stone yonder, 
Under the chestnut tree. 

You're traveling, stranger? Mebbe 
You've got some notions to sell? 

We hev a sight of peddlers, 
But we allers treat them well, 

For they, poor souls, are trying, 

Like the rest of us to live; 
And its not like tramping the country 

And calling on folks to give. 

Not that I meant a word, sir — 
No offence in the world to you ; 

I think, now I look at it closer, 
Your coat is an army blue. 

Don't say ? Under Sherman, were you ? 

That was — how many years ago? 
I had a boy at Shiloh, 

Kearney — a sergeant — Joe ! 

Joe Kearney, you might a' met him? 

But in course you were miles apart, 
He was a tall, straight boy, sir, 

The pride of his mother's heart. 

We were off to Kittery, then, sir, 
Small farmers in dear old Maine ; 

It's a long stretch from there to Kansas, 
But I couldn't go back again. 

He was all we had, was Joseph ; 

He and my old man and me 
Had sort o' growed together, 

And were happy as we could be. 



I wasn't a-looking for trouble 

When the terrible war begun, 
And I wrestled for grace to be able 

To give up our only son. 

Well, well, 'taint no use o' talking, 

My old man said, said he: 
"The Lord loves a willing giver;" 

And that's what I tried to be. 

Well, the heart and the flesh are rebels, 
And hev to be fought with grace 

But I'd give my life — yes, willin' — 
To look on my dead boy's face. 

Take care ! you are spillin' your tea, sir, 
Poor soul ! don't cry ; I'm sure 

You've had a good mother some time — 
Your wounds, were they hard to cure? 

Andersonville ! God help you! 

Hunted by dogs, did you say? 
Hospital ! crazy, seven years, sir i 

I wonder you're living to-day. 

I'm thankful my Joe was shot, sir, 
"How do you know that he died?" 

'Twas certified, sir, by the surgeon, 
Here's the letter, and — "mebbe he lied/' 

Well, I never ! you shake like the ager, 
My Joe ! there's his name and the date ; 

"Joe Kearney, 7th Maine, sir, a sergeant — 
Lies here in a critical state — 

"Just died — will be buried to-morrow — 
Can't wait for his parents to come." 

Well, I thought God had left us that hour, 
As for John, my poor man, he was dumb. 

Didn't speak for a month to his neighbors, 
Scarce spoke in a week, sir, to me; 

Never been the same man since that Mon- 
day 
They brought us this letter you see. 



338 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



And you were from Maine! from old Kit- 
tery? 

What time in the year did you go? 
I just disremember the fellows 

That marched out of town with our Joe. 

Lord love ye ! come into the house, sir ! 
It's getting too warm out o' door. 



If I'd known you'd been gone for a soger, 
I'd taken you here afore. 

Now make yourself easy. We're humbler, 

We Kansas folks don't go for show — 
Set here — it's Joe's chair — take your hat 
off. 
"Call father !" My God ! you are Joe ! 
— Alice Robbins. 



t&& t&* c*5* 



THE COMING MILLIONS. 



JIM CROKER lived far in the woods, 
a solitary place. 
Where the bushes grew, like whiskers, on 

his unrazored face; 
And the black bear was his brother and the 

catamount his chum, 
And Jim he lived and waited for the mil- 
lions yet to come. 

Jim Croker made a clearing, and he sowed 
it down to wheat, 

And he rilled his lawn with cabbage and 
he planted it with beet, 

And it blossomed with potatoes, and with 
peach and pear and plum, 

And Jim he lived and waited for the mil- 
lions yet to come. 

Then Jim he took his ancient axe and 

cleared a forest street, 
While he lived on bear and succotash and 

young opossum meat. 
And his rhythmic axe strokes sounded and 

the woods no more were dumb, 
While he cleared a crooked highway for the 

millions yet to come. 

Then they came like aimless stragglers, 
they came from far and near, 

A little log house settlement grew round 
the pioneer ; 



And the sound of saw and broadaxe made 

a glad industrial hum. 
Jim said : "The coming millions, they have 

just begun to come." 

And a little crooked railway wound round 

mountain, hill and lake, 
Crawling toward the forest village like an 

undulating snake; 
And one morn the locomotive puffed into 

the wilderness, 
And Jim said : "The coming millions, they 

are coming by express." 

And the village grew and prospered, but 
Jim Croker's hair was grayer; 

When they got a city charter, and old Jim 
was chosen Mayor; 

But Jim declined the honor, and moved his 
household goods 

Far away into the forest, to the old prime- 
val woods. 

Far and far into the forest moved the griz- 
zled pioneer, 

There he reared his hut and murmured, "I 
will build a city here." 

And he hears the woodfox barking, and 
he hears the partridge drum, 

And the old man sits and listens for the 
millions yet to come. 

— S. W.Foss. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



339 



KEEP A STIFF UPPER LIP. 



THE summer wind is sniffin' round the 
bloomin' locus' trees, 
And the clover in the pastur' is a big day 

for the bees, 
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above- 
board and on the sly, 
Till they stutter in their buzzin' and stag- 
ger as they fly. 

They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's 

out to-day, 
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared 

away, 
And the woods is all the greener, and the 

grass is greener still; 
It may rain again to-morrow, but I don't 

think it will. 

Some say the crops is ruined, and the corn's 

drownded out, 
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, 

without doubt; 
But the kind Providence that has never 

failed as yet, 
Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh 

hour, I bet! 

Does the medder-lark complain, as he 

swims high and dry, 
Through the waves of the wind and the 

blue of the sky? 



Does the quail set up and whistle in a dis- 
appointed way, 

Er hang his head in silence and sorrow all 
the day? 

Is the chipmunk's health a failure? Does 
he walk or does he run? 

Don't the buzzards ooze around up there, 
just like they've alius done? 

Is there anything the matter with the roos- 
ter's lungs or voice? 

Ort a mortal be complainin' when dumb an- 
imals rejoice? 

Then let us, one and all, be contented with 
our lot; 

The June is here this morning and the sun 
is shining hot. 

Oh, let us fill our hearts with the glory of 
the day, 

And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sor- 
row far away! 

Whatever be our station, with Providence 
for guide, 

Such fine circumstances ort to make us sat- 
isfied ; 

For the world is full of roses, and the roses 
full of dew, 

And the dew is full of heavenly love that 
drips for me and you. 

— James Whit comb Riley. 



«5* t5* t$* 



THE BEST SEWING-MACHINE. 



GOT one? Don't say so! Which did 
you get? 
One of the kind to open and shut ? 
Own or hire it? How much did you 

_ pay? 
Does it go with a crank or a treadle ? S-a-y. 
I'm a single man, and somewhat green ; 
Tell me about your sewing-machine." 



"Listen, my boy, and hear all about it : 
I don't know what I could do without it ; 
I've owned one now for more than a year, 
And like it so well that I call it 'my dear ;' 
'Tis the cleverest thing that ever was seen, 
This wonderful family sewing-machine. 

"It's none of your angular Wheeler things, 



340 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



With steel-shod back and cast-iron wings; 
Its work would bother a hundred of his, 
And worth a thousand ! Indeed it is ; 
And has a way — you need not stare — 
Of combing and braiding its own back hair ! 

"Mine is not one of those stupid affairs 
That stands in a corner with what-nots and 

chairs 
And makes that dismal, heachy noise 
Which all the comfort of sewing destroys; 
No rigid contrivance of lumber and steel, 
But one with a natural spring in the heel. 

"Mine is one of the kind to love, 
And wears a shawl and a soft kid glove ; 
Has the merriest eyes and the daintiest foot, 
And sports the charmingest gaiter-boot, 
And a bonnet with feathers, and ribbons, 

and loops, 
With any indefinite number of hoops. 

"None of your patent machines for me, 
Unless Dame Nature's the patentee ; 
I like the sort that can laugh and talk, 
And take my arm for an evening walk ; 



That will do whatever the owner may 

choose, 
With the slightest perceptible turn of the 

screws ; 

"One that can dance, and — possibly — flirt ; 
And make a pudding as well as a shirt ; 
One that can sing without dropping a stitch, 
And play the housewife, lady, or witch ; 
Ready to give the sagest advice, 
Or to do up your collars and things so nice. 

"What do you think of my machine? 
A 'n't it the best that ever was seen? 
'Tisn't a clumsy, mechanical toy, 
But flesh and blood ! Hear that, my boy ? 
With a turn for gossip and household 

affairs, 
Which include, you know, the sewing of 

tears. 

"Tut, tut, don't talk. I see it all— 

You needn't keep winking so hard at the 

wall; 
I know what your fidgety fumblings mean ; 
You would like, yourself a sewing-machine ! 
Well, get one, then, — of the same design, — 
There were plenty left where I got mine !" 



«£* t&* <<5* 



CABIN PHILOSOPHY. 



JES' turn de back-log, ober, dar — an' pull 
your stoo'es up nigher, 
An* watch dat 'possum cookin' in de skillet 

by de fire: 
Lemme spread my legs out on de bricks to 

make my feelin's flow, 
An' I'll grin' you out a fac' or two, to take 
befo' you go. 

Now, in dese busy wukin' days, dey's 
changed de Scripter fashions, 

An' you needn't look to mirakuls to furnish 
you wid rations ; 



Now, when you's wantin' loaves o' bread, 

you got to go and fetch 'em, 
An' ef you's wantin' fishes, you mus' dig 

your wums an' ketch 'em ; 
For you kin put it down as sartin dat the 

time is long gone by, 
When sassages an' 'taters use to rain fum 

out de sky! 

Ef yo think about it keerfully, an' put it to 

the tes', 
You'll diskiver dat de safes' plan is gin'ully 

de bes' : 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



341 



Ef you stumble on a hornet's nes' an' make 

de critters scatter, 
You needn't stan' dar like a fool an' argefy 

de matter ; 
An' when de yaller fever comes an' settles 

all aroun', 
Tis better dan de karanteen to shuffle out o' 

town! 

Dar's heap o' dreadful music in de very 

fines' fiddle; 
A ripe an' meller apple may be rotten in de 

middle ; 
De wises' lookin' trabeler may be de bigges' 

fool; 
Dar's a lot o' solid kickin' in the humbles' 

kind o' mule ; 
De preacher ain't de holies' dat war's de 

meekes' look, 
An' does de loudes' bangin' on the kiver ob 

de book ! 

De people pays deir bigges' bills in buyin' 
lots an' lan's; 

Dey scatter all deir picayunes aroun' de 
peanut stan's ; 

De twenties an' de fifties goes in payin' orf 
deir rents, 

But Heben an' de organ grinder gits de cop- 
per cents. 



I neber likes de cullud man dat thinks too 
much o' eatin' ; 

t&** tcfr t&* 



But frolics froo de wukin' days, and snoozes 

at de meetin' ; 
Dat jines de Temp'ance 'Ciety, an' keeps a 

gittin' tight, 
An' pulls his water-millions in de middle 

ob de night! 

Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets 
in deir ban's, 

Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de 
ban's, 

Had better drop deir guns, an' go to 
marchin' wid deir hoes 

An' git a honest libbin' as dey chop de cot- 
ton-rows, 

Or de State may put 'em arter while to 
drillin' in de ditches, 

Wid more'n a single stripe a-runnin' 'cross 
deir breeches. 

Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'tall is 

mighty so' an' nice, 
But it busted up de renters in de lubly 

Paradise ! 
You see, dey bofe was human bein's jes' 

like me and' you, 
An' dey couldn't reggerlate deirselves wid 

not a thing to do ; 
Wid plenty wuk befo' 'em, an' a cotton crop 

to make, 
Dey'd nebber thought o' loafm' roun' an' 

chattin' wid de snake. 



MR. MEEK'S DINNER. 



'' ' T WONDER, James," said Mrs. Meek, 
1 doubtfully, to her husband one morn- 
ing, "if you could get your own dinner to- 
night? You see, I've had to let the servant 
go on her holidays for a day or two, and 
they want me desperately at the Woman's 
Aid and Relief Bazaar, to help them with 
[heir high tea from 4:30 to 8:30. If you 
thought you could manage by yourself — " 



"I'll try to survive it," observed Mr. 
Meek, good-naturedly. "I don't fancy it 
will prove fatal." 

"I'll gti a roast and cook it this morn- 
ing," went on Mrs. Meek, cheerfully, "and 
you can have it cold for dinner." 

"Thank you," replied Mr. Meek, "you'll 
do nothing of the kind. I fancy I haven't 
g*one camping pretty much every year of- 



342 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



my life for nothing. I suspect I can man- 
age a hot dinner about as well as most 
women." 

Mrs. Meek had her doubts, and, unlike 
most wives, expressed them. 

Mr. Meek viewed his wife's doubts with 
supreme contempt, and, unlike most hus- 
bands, expressed it. 

Thus it finally resulted that Mrs. Meek 
abandoned all idea of preparing Mr. Meek's 
dinner for him and betook herself to the 
Bazaar. So it resulted furthermore, that 
Mr. Meek left his office about four o'clock 
that afternoon, and proceeded to collect on 
his way home the necessary supplies for a 
dainty little dinner. 

An alluring display of chickens was the 
first thing to catch his eye, and he was just 
on the point of securing one of them when, 
by good luck, or more probably through 
the natural sagacity of the man, he recol- 
lected that — well, that you don't, as a rule, 
cook chickens as they are. In the mo- 
mentary reaction that followed this feat of 
memory he bought a couple of mutton chops 
and three tomatoes. 

"I'll have a good, plain, old-fashioned 
English dinner," thought he, as he hurried 
past the deceitful chickens with something 
almost akin to reproach. "None of your 
finiky poultry dinners for me!" 

"By Jove !" he exclaimed a moment later, 
"I'll have an apple pudding and some oyster 
soup to begin on." 

He was so tickled with this idea that he 
promptly rushed into a grocery shop and 
purchased half a peck of their best eating 
apples and then hurried home without a 
thought of the cab he was to order for his 
wife at 8 :30 sharp. 

By five o'clock he had the fire going 
beautifully, and everything ready for a 
start. By six o'clock he was just beginning 
to enjoy the thing; the tomatoes were stew- 



ing divinely, the potatoes were boiling to 
their heart's content, and the milk for the 
oyster soup was simmering contentedly on 
the back of the stove. The oysters, by- 
the-by, had not yet arrived. 

"Dear me," thought the ambitious gen- 
tleman, "I wish I had thought of it in time, 
and I'd have had some oyster patties for a 
sort of final dessert. Hello, what's this? 
If that everlasting pig-headed woman 
hasn't left me some cold ham and a custard 
pie ! By the Lord Harry, for two cents I'd 
throw the whole thing into the back yard !" 

The natural docility of his nature, how- 
ever, prevailed, and he left the obnoxious 
viands unmolested, and proceeded with his 
dinner. At 6:30 he put the chops on to 
broil, "as in the good old days of yore" — 
this poetic allusion to the style of cooking 
being occasioned by one of them accident- 
ally dropping into the fire, whence he res- 
cued it with great presence of mind by the 
joint assistance of the stove lifter and one 
of the best table napkins. By the time the 
chop was thus rescued both it and the table 
napkin were fairly well done — to say noth- 
ing stronger. This trifling difficulty he got 
over by putting the erring chop on the win- 
dow-sill to cool, and the napkin into the 
fire — to do the other thing. 

This accomplished, and with one chop 
gently cooking on the gridiron and the 
other one cooling on the window-sill, he 
started to construct the paste for his apple 
pudding. This proved most fascinating. 
He placed a large quantity of flour in a 
small bowl, emptied a jug of water on top 
of it, added butter to taste, and proceeded 
to mould it deftly into shape, as he had 
often seen his wife do. The flour and 
water promptly forsook the bowl and be- 
took themselves to his hands. Then the 
milk for the soup began to burn, just as 
the potatoes boiled dry. He rushed to the 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



343 



rescue and left the major portion of the 
paste fairly evenly divided between the 
handles of the two saucepans and the stove 
lifter. At this juncture the tomatoes start- 
ed to see if they couldn't surpass the milk 
in burning. They succeeded. The cat, 
which was accustomed to a 6:30 dinner, 
walked off with the chop on the window 
sill, while the chop on the fire grew beauti- 
fully black on the "down side." So many 
things were now burning all at the same 
time that Mr. Meek gave up all hope of 
trying to discover just which one was burn- 
ing most. "Let the plaguy things burn till 
they're sick of it !" was the extremely broad- 
minded way in which he summed up the 
situation. With the astuteness that char- 
acterized him as distinguished from his fel- 
low men, he at once gave up all efforts to 
track the truant paste, and simply popped 
his apples into the oven to bake. 

It was now about 7:30, and the fire was 
getting hotter than pretty much anything 
on earth unless, perhaps, it was Mr. Meek. 
He turned all the dampers, opened all the 
doors, and took off all the lids. This re- 
sulted most satisfactorily, and the fire be- 
gan to cool. It didn't stop. 

It got, if anything, a little low. After 
that it got very low. Then it went out. 
He rushed for a kindling, and nearly took 
his head off on a clothes-line. Just as he 
had got nicely through expressing his views 
on clothes-lines in general, and that clothes- 
line in particular, he went about twice as 
far towards taking his head off on the same 
clothes-line on his way back. 

The gentlest of natures when roused is 
often the most terrible. Mr. Meek became 
very terrible. He used up enough kindling, 
profanity and coal oil to have ignited the 
pyramids of Egypt. He stamped and 
shoved, and poked and banged, and howled 
and shook till even the cat — and it had had 



its dinner — was displeased with him, and 
departed to the outer kitchen to try the 
oysters, which the dilatory grocer had just 
deposited on the table without waiting to 
parley with Mr. Meek. He was a w T ise 
grocer and had heard enough. 

When about five minutes later Mr. Meek 
discovered that the cat had found the 
oysters to its taste, he became even less 
calm. Had the cat been around (but, like 
the grocer, it had heard enough, and taken 
an unobtrusive departure) it is highly prob- 
able that a majority of its nine lives would 
have come to an abrupt termination. 

At this stage, to console the unfortunate 
man, the fire began to go again. Once 
started it didn't stop. In about five minutes 
it had burnt up what remained of pretty 
much everything except a large pot of green 
tea and a small portion of Mr. Meek. The 
chop that the cat hadn't eaten was especially 
well done. It could be quite safely left on 
the window sill with a whole legion of cats 
around it. Mr. Meek, however, simply left 
it in the coal bin. In point of either color 
or hardness it would have been difficult to 
have found a more fitting resting place 
for it. 

Then there came over Mr. Meek's face 
a terrible expression. He brought in a pail 
(it was the scrubbing pail which he had 
mistaken for the scrap pail, but no matter) 
and poured the soup carefully into it, throw- 
ing the pan about five feet, into the sink; 
next he scraped the potatoes into the same 
pail, and again another pan followed the 
course of the first in getting to the sink; 
then he poured the tomatoes on top of the 
potatoes, and still a third pan got to the 
sink with unusual rapidity. It cannot be 
definitely stated whether or not Mr. Meek, 
in doing this, was actuated by the desire to 
prepare some famous hunter's dish relished 
in the dear old camping days gone by, but 



344 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



certain it is, no sooner did he get the toma- 
toes nicely on top of the potatoes than he 
took the whole thing and tossed it, pail and 
all, into the outer lane. 

This accomplished, he proceeded to make 
a meal off the cold ham and some bread 
and butter — the cooking butter, of course. 

Just as he was finishing, Mrs. Meek re- 
turned. "Why, James," she cried, cheer- 
fully, "you never sent the cab for me and 
I waited nearly an hour." 

"No," said her husband, calmly. "I've 
been terribly busy. Men from New York 
— just got home a little while ago. This 
is a very good ham — a shade overdone, 
though, isn't it?" 

"Perhaps a shade less wouldn't have 
hurt it. . Let me get you a piece of pie?" 

"No, thank you! No cold pie for me 
when there're hot apples in the oven. I'll 
tell you what you might do; you might 
bring 'em in if you're not too tired." 



Mrs. Meek departed on her mission. In 
a few moments she reappeared, and, with- 
out moving a muscle, placed the plate of 
baked apples before her lord and master. 
They were about the size of walnuts and 
the color of ebony. Judging by the way 
they rattled on the plate they were rather 
harder than flint. 

Mr. Meek rose with an awful look in 
his eye. 

"I'm afraid," observed his wife, "they're 
like the ham — just a shade overdone." 

"If ever I catch that cat," remarked Mr. 
Meek as that sleek feline purred past him 
with a playful frisk of his tail, "I'll break 
every bone in its body" — only he described 
its body with sundry adjectives that were 
very strange to the ears of Mrs. Meek. At 
least, so she said when she described the 
occurrence to her bosom friend, Mrs. Mug- 
gins, next day. 



t<$* t5* 



OVER THE 

I CONSIDER that a conversation by tele- 
phone — when you are simply sitting by 
and not taking any part in that conversation 

is one of the solemnest curiosities of this 

modern life. 

Yesterday I was writing a deep article 
on a sublime philosophical subject while 
such a conversation was going on in the 
next room. I notice that one can always 
write best when somebody is talking 
through a telephone close by. Well, the 
thing began in this way. A member of 
our household came in and asked me to 
have our house put into communication 
with Mr. Bagley's down town. I have 
observed, in many cities, that the gentle 
sex always shrink from calling up the Cen- 
tral Office themselves. I don't know why, 



TELEPHONE. 

but they do. So I rang the bell, and this 
talk ensued: 

Central office — "What-number-do-you- 
want ?" 

I.— "Main 24-68." 

C. O.— "Main 2-4-6-3?" 

I.— "No, 2-4-6-8." 

Then I heard a k-look, k-look, k'look — 
klook-klook-klook-look-look ! Then a hor- 
rible "gritting" of teeth, and finally a pip- 
ing voice : 

"Hello?" (rising inflection). 

I.— "Hello, is this Mr. Bagley's?" 

"Yes, did you wish to speak to me ?" 

Without answering, I handed the receiver 
to the applicant, and sat down. Then fol- 
lowed the queerest of all things in the world 
— a conversation with only one end to it. 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



3-15 



You hear questions asked; you don't hear 
the answer. You hear invitations given; 
you hear no thanks in return. You have 
listening pauses of dead silence, followed 
by apparently irrelevant and unjustifiable 
exclamations of glad surprise, or sorrow or 
dismay. You can't make head or tail out of 
the talk, because you never hear anything 
that the person at the other end of the wire 
says. Well, I heard the following series of 
remarkable observations, all from the one 
tongue, and all shouted, — for you can't ever 
persuade the gentle sex to speak gently into 
a telephone : 

"Hello, is that you, Daisy?" 

Pause. 

"Yes. Why, how did that happen?" 

Pause. 

"What did you say?" 

Pause. 

"Oh, no, I don't think it was." 

Pause. 

"No! Oh, no, I didn't mean that. I 
did think of getting it, but I don't believe 
it will stay in style, and — what? — and 
Charlie just hates that shade of blue, any- 
way." 

Pause. 

"What's that?" 

"You wouldn't let him dictate tQ you, at 
least before you were married?" 

Pause. 

"Why, my dear, how childish ! You 
don't suppose I'd let him afterwards, do 
you ?" 

Pause. 

"I turned it over with a back stitch on 
the selvage edge." 

Pause. 

"Yes, I like that way, too ; but I think 
it better to baste it on with valenciennes, or 
something of that kind. It gives such an 
air." 

Pause. 



"Yes, you know he did pay some attention 
to Celia." 

Pause. 

"Why, she threw herself right at his 
head." 

Pause. 

"And he told me he always admired me." 

Pause. 

"Well, he said it seemed as if he never 
could get anybody to introduce him." 

Pause. 

"Perhaps so; I generally use a hairpin." 

"What did you say?" (Aside) "Chil- 
dren, do be quiet !" 

Pause. 

"Oh! B flat! Dear me, I thought you 
said it was the cat !" 

Pause. 

"Since when?" 

Pause. 

"Why, I never heard of it." 

Pause. 

"You astound me! It seems utterly im- 
possible !" 

Pause. 

"Who did?" 

Pause. 

"Goodness gracious !" 

Pause. 

"Well, what is the world coming to? 
Was it right in church?" 

Pause. 

"And was her mother there?" 

Pause. 

"Why, Daisy, I should have died of hu- 
miliation ! What did they do ?" 

Long pause. 

"I can't be perfectly sure, because I 
haven't the notes by me; but I think it 
goes something like this : To-tolly-loll-loll- 
lee-ly-H-i-do ! And then repeat, you know." 

Pause. 

"Yes, I think it is very sweet — and very 



346 



MISCELLANEOUS, 



solemn and impressive, if you get the 
andantino and the pianissimo right." 

Pause. 

"Did he really say that?" 

Pause. 

"Yes, I do care for him — what? — but 
mind you don't tell him I don't want him 
to know it." 

Pause. 

"What?" 

Pause. 

"Oh, not in the least — go right on. 
Papa's here, writing, — it doesn't bother 
him." 

Pause. 

"Very well, I'll come if I can." (Aside) 
"Dear me, papa, how it does tire a person's 
arm to hold this thing up so long ! I wish 
she'd " 

Pause. 

"Oh, no, not at all; I like to talk — but 
I'm afraid I'm keeping you from your af- 
fairs." 

Pause. 

"Visitors?" 

Pause. 

"No, we never use butter on them." 

Pause. 

"Yes, that is a very good way; but all 
the cook-books say they are very unhealthy 
when they are out of season. And papa 



doesn't like them, anyway, — especially 
canned." 

Pause. 

"Yes, I'm going to the concert with him 
to-night." 

"Engaged ? why, certainly not." 

Pause. 

"You know, dear, you'd be the very first 
one I'd tell." 

Pause. 

"No, we really are not engaged." 

Pause. 

"Must you go? Well, good-bye." 

Pause. 

"Yes, I think so. Good-bye." 

Pause. 

"Four o'clock, then — I'll be ready. Can 
Charlie meet us then?" 

Pause. 

"Oh, that's good. Good-bye." 

Pause. 

"Thank you ever so much. Good-bye." 

Pause. 

"Oh, not at all ! Just as fresh— which ?" 

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that. Good-bye." 

(Hangs up the receiver and says: "Oh, 
it does tire a person's arm so.") 

A man delivers a single brutal "Good- 
bye," and that is the end of it. Not so with 
the gentle sex — I say it in their praise, they 
cannot abide abruptness. 



CfT* fc^* c^* 



THE VOLUNTEER'S UNIFORM. 



MY papa's all dressed up to-day, 
He never looked so fine, 
I thought when I first looked at him, 
My papa wasn't mine. 

He's got a beautiful new suit — 

The old one was so old — 
It's blue, with buttons, O, so bright, 

I guess they must be gold. 



And papa's sort o' glad and sort 
O' sad — I wonder why? 

And every time she looks at him 
It makes my mamma cry. 

Who's Uncle Sam? My papa says 
That he belongs to him; 

But papa's joking, 'cause he knows 
My uncle's name is Jim. 




'WHEKT GRANDMA DANCED THE MINUET. 




ft 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



349 



My papa just belongs tome 
And mamma. And I guess 

The folks are blind who cannot see 
His buttons, marked U. S. 



U. S. spells us. He's ours — and yet 
My mamma can't help cry, 

And papa tries to smile at me 
And can't. I wonder why? 



£rl %3™ <&* 



THE CLOSING YEAR. 

IS midnight's holy hour, — and silence 



T 

1 now 

Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er 

The still and pulseless world. Hark! on 

the winds 
The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 'tis the 

knell 
Of the departed year. No funeral train 
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and 

wood, 
With melancholy light, the moon-beams 

rest 
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is 

stirred 
As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud 
That floats so still and placidly through 

heaven, 
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — 
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's 

solemn form, 
And Winter with its aged locks, — and 

breathe, 
In mournful cadences that come abroad 
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touch- 
ing wail, 
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, 
Gone from the Earth forever. 

'Tis a time 
For memory and for tears. Within the 

deep, 
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, 
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of 

Time 
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its 

cold 



And solemn finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have passed away, 
And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of life. That spectre 

lifts 
The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, 
And, bending mournfully above the pale, 
Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters 

dead flowers 
O'er what has passed to nothingness. 

The year 
Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious 

throng 
Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each 

brow, 
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift 

course, 
It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful, — 
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand 
Upon the strong man, — and the haughty 

form 
Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. 
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged 
The bright and joyous, — and the tearful 

wail 
Of stricken ones, is heard where erst the 

song 
And reckless shout resounded 

It passed o'er 
The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, 

and shield 
Flashed in the light of mid-day, — and the 

strength 
Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, 



350 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Green from the soil of carnage, waves 

above 
The crushed and moldering skeleton. It 

came, 
And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; 
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, 
It heralded its millions to their home 
In the dim land of dreams. 

Remorseless Time! 
Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe! — 

what power 
Can stay him in his silent course, or melt 
His iron heart to pity? On, still on, 
He presses, and forever. The proud bird, 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or 

brave 
The fury of the northern Hurricane, 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's 

home, 
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and 

sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain crag, — but 

Time 
Knows not the weight of sleep or weari- 
ness, 
And night's deep darkness has no chain to 

bind 
His rushing pinions. 



Revolutions sweep 
O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the 

breast 
Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink 
Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles 
Spring blazing from the Ocean, and go 

back 
To their mysterious caverns, — Mountains 

rear 
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, 

and bow 
Their tall heads to the plain, — new Em- 
pires rise, 
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, 
And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, 
Startling the nations, — and the very stars, 
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, 
Glitter a while in their eternal depths, 
And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, 
Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass 

away 
To darkle in the trackless void, — Yet, 

Time, 
Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce 

career, 
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his 

path, 
To sit and muse like other conquerors 
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. 
— George D. Prentice. 




££ Little Nature Studies £2 



A love of nature is inherent in all, and the selections in this department will be found particu- 
larly adapted to the wishes of children, young and old, who are always 
interested in the affairs of Mother Nature. 



c£* ^5* ^5* 



EASTER FLOWERS. 



M 



ESSAGES of God's dear love 
Do these flowers bear ; 
He who with gracious hand 

Gives these colors rare, 
Will remember you and me 
With as true a care. 

So I bring love's offering 

On this Easter Day, 
Flowers fair that to each heart 

Softly seem to say: 



"Death no more can over you 
Hold eternal sway." 

As the tender plants escaped 

From the pris'ning mold, 
So has Christ death's bondage burst, 

Death so grim and cold. 
This I think the message true 

That these blossoms hold. 



— Clara J. Denton. 






A LITTLE BOY'S "ESSAY ON KATS." 

(Regardless of method, and original in spelling.) 



AKAT is an animile. Ov coarse it iz. 
Any student of Grammur nose that. 
Sum kats don't yuze good Grammur. 
Thare ar tu kinds ov kats, maskuline, and 
the uther kind. Yu no what that iz. 
Thare ar black kats, white kats, malteze 
kats, awlso mixed culurs ov boath jenders. 
Moast awl kan fite. Sumtimes thay get 
beet. Usuly thay doant. Thay ar yuzed 
for doughmestick purr-pussies, except the 
Kat of Nign Tales. 

When sircumstances are bad, kats hav 
two liv on Ratts and Katnipp. Sum fokes 
yews katnipp as a bevurij. Eye doant. 
Kats have fasillytiz for mewzik. 

Eye saw nign kats under mie windur 



wun nite. Eye thawt thay wur the nign 
mewses. Eye gess thay war. It sounded 
sow. Once in a while thay wood taik a 
rest. A rest denoats a mewzical silents. 
Thay wur quarter-rests, I guess. Eye tried 
to taik a rest, but Eye coodn't. Finully, 
eye through the water-pitchur out the win- 
dur. That had sum effekt. It broak the 
pitchur. Eye must hav lade awaik thurtie 
or fortie owrz, when the klok struk wun. 
Eye hoaped it wuld skair them aweigh, 
but it didn't. Eye through a chare at them. 
Eye gess it hit 'em all, and kind ov en- 
kurijed them. Thay went and browt a lot 
ov moar kats, eye gess. Sow eye laiy in 
bed, waiting for mornin to kum. It wuz 



35i 



352 



LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 



geting coled, and a happy thawt struck me. 
Eye put down the windur. Eye awlso re- 
tired tu a room on the opozit sighed ov the 
hows, up stares. Finally eye saw a goast. 
It wuz a white kat, with a black i, siting in 
the windur. Then eye went two slepe. In 
the morning eye got up, and what dew yew 
sopohs eye saw ? Why, eye saw a chare and 



a lot uv water-pitchur outsighed the win- 
dur. What puzuls owr hole family iz how 
it cairn thare. Doant yew evur tell. Lizzy 
Taylor found a kitun undur her desk the 
uthur day. I wundur if sum teecher put it 
thare to skair her. She didn't faint, thoh, 
and neethur did the kitun. 



t&& £* c5* 



"IF I WERE A FLOWER." 



IF I were a flower, fair, 
I would try to bloom 
At Easter-tide, and scatter 
Sweetest of perfume. 

For on the Easter morning, 
Night was turned to Day, 

When the angels from the tomb 
Rolled the stone away. 



And now, we fear no longer 

Death and all its tears, 
We shall with the Savior live 

Through the countless years. 

So, if I were a flower, 
I would for Easter grow, 

And that life must conquer death, 
Would my beauty show. 

— Clara J. Denton. 



t£* t«5* t<5* 



A BIRD STORY. 

(For Christian Endeavor entertainment.) 



FOUR little birds in a nest too small, 
Only one mamma to care for all ; 
Twas twitter and chirp the livelong day, 
No wonder the mammas soon grew gray. 

Papa-bird was a dashing fellow, 
Coat of black with a flash of yellow; 
Never a bird in the early spring 
Could rival him when he chose to sing. 

He helped the mamma-bird hang the nest 
Where the winds would rock it the very 

best, 
And while she sat on her eggs all day, 
He'd cheer her up with a roundelay. 

But when from each egg in the swinging 

bed, 
A little birdie popped its head, 



He said to his wife, "I've done my share 
Of household duties; they're now your 
care." 

Then off he'd go to a concert fine 
In the apple trees and bright sunshine, 
Without a thought of the stupid way 
His poor little wife must pass her day. 

At last the mamma-bird fell ill, 
And the papa was forced, against his will, 
To take her place with the birdies small, 
Ready to answer their chirp and call. 

Sorry day for the wretched fellow, 
Dressed so gay with a scarf of yellow ! 
Shut in the house from morning till night, 
Was ever a bird in such a plight ? 



LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 



353 



Tie on a hood, or fasten a shoe, 
Or mend a dolly as good as new, 
Or tell a story over again, 
Or kiss the finger that had a pain. 

Or settle dispute of which and who, 
Or sew on a button to baby's shoe — 
These were a part of the calls he had 
In that single day to drive him mad. 

At even he said, "Another day 

Would turn my goldenest plume to gray; 



^ 



Or else, in a fit of grim despair, 
I'd fling these children into the air !" 

Have I mixed up birds with human folks? 
And homes with nests in the lofty oaks? 
The story is true, and I overheard 
Those very words of the papa-bird ; 

But who he was, and where he did dwell, 
I'll never, no never, no never tell ! 
The truth for once is truth for aye, 
And this is the reason mammas grow gray. 
— Mrs. Maggie B. Peeke. 



BOB-O'-LINK. 



MERRILY swinging on brier and weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name ; 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
Hear him call in his merry note ; 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink, 
Look what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband 
sings, 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Brood, kind creature. ; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers, while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



Modest and shy as a nun is she, 

One weak chirp is her only note, 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat ; 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Never was I afraid of man ; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might ; 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
Six wide mouths are open for food ; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seed for the hungry brood 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



354 



LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 



Robert of Lincoln at last is made 

Sober with work and silent with care 
Off is his holiday garment laid, 
Half forgotten, that merry air, 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes ; 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

— William Cullen Bryant. 



t£& t£& t£& 



FORGET-ME-NOT. 



A 



LOVELY little flow'ret 

Blooms on our meadow green; 
Its eye, just like the heaven, 
So blue and clear, is seen. 
Although you hear no voices 

In that far lonely spot, 
The flower is something saying: 
It says, "Forget me not !" 



So, when I see two dear eyes 

So shining and so blue, 
I think of our green meadow 

And of my flow'ret too. 
My heart then something sayeth- 

Oh, can you tell me what? 
All timidly and softly 

It says, "Forget me not !" 



J8 <£ <£ 



A SERMON IN FLOWERS. 



JUST beyond this field of clover, in a 
pasture rough and rocky, 
Where the golden-rod and thistles and the 
trailing woodbine grow, 
There, one day, I heard this sermon, most 
pathetically simple, 
Yet so fraught with truth and wisdom 
that it set my heart aglow : 

"I am just a little flower, — just the plainest, 
wildest flower, 
Growing here upon a rock, with very lit- 
tle soil or shade; 
I am stunted, pale and crooked, — quite un- 
like my brothers yonder, 
With their tall, green stalks and yellow 
plumes that never droop nor fade. 



"But I care not; He who planted knew just 
how much soil and sunshine, 
How much rain and wind were needful to 
unfold the flower He planted, 
So He gave them, and I grew, to tell my 
story with its lesson; 
What am I, that I should murmur at His 
wise and just command? 

"Quite enough for me to know that I am 
just as He designed me; 
So I never lose my joy in sighs for what 
I might have been; 
God looks down in love and mercy — I look 
up in perfect trusting, 
And I love the earth and air, the pain as 
well as joy therein." 



LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 



355 



Man may sing a song most sweetly, which 
his inmost soul despises; 
He may preach a sermon boldly, which 
his heart has never known ; 
All have sinned — and this sad knowledge 
makes us loth to look for guidance 
To ourselves or to our brothers — and we 
cannot walk alone. 



But a bird can thrill a message, or a 
thunder-burst proclaim it, 
Far beyond the faintest shade of doubt, 
with meaning, full and broad; 
And the modest little wild flowers, though 
we crush them with our footsteps, 
Bruised and dying, preach their sermon, 
and we know it comes from God. 
— Addie F. Davis. 



(£* fcT* C<5* 



AN APRIL WELCOME. 



COME up, April, through the valley, 
In your robes of beauty drest, 
Come and wake your flowery children 

From their wintry beds of rest ; 
Come and overthrow them softly 

With the sweet breath of the south ; 
Drop upon them, warm and loving, 
Tenderest kisses of your mouth. 

Call the crowfoot and the crocus, 

Call the pale anemone, 
Call the violet and the daisy, 

Clothed with careful modesty; 



Seek the low and humble blossoms, 

Of their beauties unaware, 
Let the dandelion and fennel 

Show their shining, yellow hair. 

Bid the little homely sparrows 

Chirping in the cold and rain, 
Their important sweet complaining 

Sing out from their hearts again ; 
Bid them set themselves to nesting, 

Cooing love in softest words, 
Crowd their nest, all cold and empty, 

Full of little callow birds. 

— Phebe Cary. 



t&* t<5* t<5* 



MORN ON THE MOUNTAINS. 



THERE is beauty in this world of ours 
for him with eyes to see, 
There are beauty smiles at harvest on the 

prairies broad and free, 
There is beauty in the forest, there is beauty 

on the hills, 
There is beauty in the mottled light that 

gleams along the rills, 
And a beauty out of heaven over all the 

landscape spills 
When the sun shines on the mountains in 

the morning. 

There is beauty where the ocean rolls ma- 
jestic on the shore, 



There is beauty in the moonlight as it 
gleams the waters o'er, 

There is beauty in the sunrise where the 
„ clouds blush rosy red, 

There is beauty in the sunset with its ban- 
ners flung o'erhead, 

And a beauty past expression o'er the 
snowy peaks is shed 

When the sun shines on the mountains in 
the morning. 

There is beauty when the green returns and 
glistens in the showers, 

There is beauty in the summer, as she gar- 
lands earth with flowers, 



356 



LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 



There is beauty in the autumn, with the 
mellow afterglow, 

There is beauty in the winter, with this dia- 
dem of snow, 

But a beauty more enchanting than the sea- 
sons ever know 

Gilds the sunshine on the mountains in the 
morning. 

There is beauty in the rainbow as it gleams 

above the storm, 
There is beauty in the sculptor's vision 

frozen into form, 
There is beauty in the prophet's dream and 

in the poet's thought, 
There is beauty in the artist's rapture on the 



canvas wrought, 






But a beauty more divine than art can ever 

tell is caught 
From the sunshine on the mountains in the 



Oh, the sunshine on the mountains ! How a 

golden web is spun 
O'er the topmost peaks that glisten from the 

yet unrisen sun. 
With their bases yet in shadow, but their 

faces glowing bright, 
With their foreheads turned to heaven and 

their locks so snowy white, 
They are high priests of the sunrise, they 

are prophets of the light, 
With the sunshine smiling o'er them in the 

morning. 

J* 



A STRING OF BIRDS' EGGS. 

(A short sermon on ornithology.) 



WHO knows Hebrew? Who knows 
Greek? 
Who the tongue the birdies speak? 
Here's a set of meanings hid 
As records on a pryamid. 
What is meant by all these freckles, 
Bluish blotches, brownish speckles? 

These are words, in cipher printed, 
On each egg-shell faintly tinted ; 
Changeless laws the birds must heed, 
What if I should try to read ? 

On the Oriole's, scratched and scarred, 

This to trace I find not hard : 

"Breasted bright as trumpet flower ; 

Builder of a swinging bower, 

Airest dwelling ever seen 

In the elm-trees' branches green; 

Careless caroler shall be 

The little bird that sleeps in me." 

On the Blue Jay's greenish gray, 
Dottings fine would seem to say: 



"Chattering braggart, crested thief, 
Jester to the woods in chief, 
Dandy gay in brilliant blue, 
Cruel glutton, coward, too, 
Screaming, gleaming rogue shall be 
The little bird that sleeps in me !" 

On Bob Lincoln's browny-white 
This is writ, if I read right : 
"Gallant lover in the clover, 
With his gladness bubbling over; 
Waltzes warbling liquid notes, — 
Yes, and one that hath two coats ! 
Nimble, neat, and blithe shall be 
The little bird that sleeps in me!" 

On the King-bird's creamy-hued 
Runs this legend : "Sulky, nude, 
Tiny tyrant, winged with black, 
Big of head and gray of back, 
Teaser of the hawk and crow, 
And of flies the deadly foe, — 
Short and sharp of note shall be 
The little bird that sleeps in me." 



LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 



357 



On the Mockbird's bluish green, 
In spot and blot these words are seen: 
"Prince of singers, sober clad, 
Wildly merry, wildly sad, 



Mocking all the feathered throng, 
Bittering still each bird's own song, — 
Madcap mocker he shall be, 
The little bird that sleeps in me \" 



c5* ^» «5* 



HOPPER AND BEE. 



A GRASSHOPPER met a bumblebee 
In a field of sweet red clover. 
"Oh, why this flurry and haste ?" cried he ; 
"I've brought my fiddle along with me. 
Let's dance till the summer's over!" 



"I'm gathering stores for the winter time," 
The bee cried over his shoulder. 

"I like your fiddling, it is sublime ; 

But, living here in this changeable clime, 
I must think of days that are colder." 

The grasshopper laughed in a mocking way, 

As gayly he flourished his fiddle ; 
A troop of butterflies, merry and gay, 
Danced in a ring through the livelong day, 
While the grasshopper stood in the mid- 
dle. 



The bumblebee, too, was fond of a dance, 

And the day was hot for working, 
But he never gave them a second glance 
And hastened away (if near them by 
chance), 
For he knew the danger of shirking ! 

He gathered his stores through the sunny 
hours 

And felt that his pleasures were coming ; 
He felt that soon there would be no flowers, 
He knew that in winter the cold sky lowers, 

And he kept up a cheerful humming. 

The cold winds came, and the days grew 
dark, 

And frozen were flower and berry ; 
The fiddler and dancers lay stiff and stark 
In lonely graves, with never a mark, 

But the wise little bee made merry. 




358 



LITTLE NATURE STUDIES. 



DAISIES. 



OVER the shoulders and slopes of the 
dune 
I saw the white daisies go down to the 



sea, 



A host in the sunshine, an army in June, 
The people God sends us to set our 
hearts free. 



The bobolinks rallied them up from the 
dell, 
The orioles whistled them out of the 
wood: 
And all of their singing was, "Earth, it 
is well!" 
And all of their dancing was, "Life, thou 



art good !' 



fe5* ^w ^* 



ONE DAY. 



OCOME, sweet wind of the South, 
In the arms of awakening spring ; 
You have kissed the violet's mouth, 
Ere she hid it, the sly little thing ; 
You have kissed the blossoming violet's 
mouth. 
And her perfume kisses bring. 

Oh, gay little dancing stream, 

Whose waves with the sunbeams play ; 
From the land of a beautiful fairy's dream, 



Did your silvery music stray — 
From the land of a fairy's dream 
To float to the earth and stay? 



O, white clouds floating on high, 
Far up in the heavenly blue — 

The joyous blue of the sky, 

The blossoming spring's own hue, 

Bend tenderly out of the sweet blue sky, 
For the flowers are calling you. 



t&*l fc7* ^* 



A DAY 

SEE the meadows white with daisies, 
Hear the Bob o'Lincoln's song, 
While he passes through the grasses, 
While he sings the whole day long. 
Daisies, daisies, daisies white, 
Meadows white with daisies ; 
Bob o', Bob o,' Bob o' bright, 
Singing sweet June's praises. 



IN JUNE. 

See the meadows white with clover, 
Hear our robin redbreast's song. 
While he flashes through the ashes, 
While he sings the boughs among. 

Clover, clover, clover white, 

Meadows white with clover; 

Robin, robin, now it's night, 

Day of June is over. 



^* t^* t&& 

SONG OF THE GRASS BLADES. 



PEEPING, peeping, here and there, 
In lawns and meadows everywhere, 
Coming up to find the spring 
And hear the robin redbreast sing ; 
Creeping under children's feet, 



Glancing at the violets sweet ; 
Growing into tiny bowers, 
For the dainty meadow flowers : 
We are small, but think a minute 
Of a world with no grass in it. 



i 



Clever Monologues 



> 



The selections in this department give the speaker unusual opportunities for a display of 
elocutionary, vocal and dramatic powers. 

&5* 5(5* <&* 

SYLVY HOOK ON CLUBS AND SOCIETIES. 



Scene. — An ordinary room; Sylvy discov- 
ered sewing; knock at door; she opens it, 
and addresses her supposed visitor; this 
continues throughout the recitation, 
which can be acted 'in full, or the move- 
ments only assumed, as best suits the 
speaker. * 

WHY, how do you do, Mis' Wise? 
Come right in and set down. It's 
a miser'ble day to be out, aint it? The 
wind is real searchin' an' it aint let up 
rainin' sense mornin'. Here, let me take 
your umbrella and put it in the sink to drain. 

You aint very well? Well, I thought you 
looked kinder pindlin'. What's the mat- 
ter? Haint been workin' too hard, have 
you ? Oh, want to know ! been tryin' to im- 
prove your mind by follerin' up lit'rary pur- 
suits, eh ? Land knows I pity you, for that 
does take hold of a body. 

No, no, thank you, Mis' Wise, but nothin' 
would indooce me to jine any society; new 
or old, I aint tuff enough. What say? 
You b'long to 'leven diffrunt ones? Well, 
I don't wonder you've lost flesh! No, I 
prob'ly shall never b'long to another so- 
ciety, as long as I live ! I've jest resigned 
from the only one I ever did b'long to. 

Unpin your shawl and take your bunnit 
off. You might as well spend the after- 
noon, now that you're here. 

It's real kind of you to want me to jine 
your new society, but, as I said before, I 
couldn't, nohow. What makes me so bitter 
agin 'em? Why, don't you know the ex- 
perience I've been through, this winter? 



No? Well, I thought the hull town knew 
it; for I expect I acted kinder hasty. It 
runs in our family not to stand too much 
naggin', 'specially on mother's side. I 
shouldn't wonder if I took my disposition 
from Aunt Silvy. She was kinder touchy, 
when she thought she was bein' put on, and 
I — but, land sake, what's the use of resur- 
rectin' the dead, an' pickin' 'em to pieces. I 
started in to tell you what made me appear 
so sorter crabbed like 'bout clubs an' socie- 
ties. 

Well, one day, early in the fall, Mis' 
Meachem came over and told me what a 
good time they was a-havin' at a new secret 
society that had jest been started, and how 
she was President of it, and she said they 
was improvin' their minds awful fast, be- 
sides bein' pledged to stan' by each other 
through thick an' thin. They had grand 
good suppers and, once in two weeks, they 
had entertainments, where they sung, spoke 
pieces and had a real sociable, helpful time. 

She run on so that I got real carried 
away about it and asked her to take in my 
name. I didn't know but what I should be 
black-balled, for Loizy Lang never could 
abide me sence I took the prize on riz bread, 
at the fair, two years ago. Howsumever, 
there wasn't a vote agin me, an' a few 
weeks later, I was 'nitiated. I aint the one 
as would tell secrets, if I did get mad, so I 
aint goin' to say anythin' about the ins an' 
outs of that society, only this much I am 
free to say: They promise as solemn as 
anythin' can be, to be like sisters to one 



359 



360 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



'nother, an' not say or do nothin' that would 
wilfully hurt one 'nother's feelin's. 

I'd been to several suppers, an' each time 
they all said I carried the best cake, an' I 
stayed an' washed the dishes every time I 
went. 

Well, one Monday, Charity Dean came 
over an' said as how I was to be on the 
program for next lit'rary meetin'. "Land 
sake!" said I, "I can't sing, nor play the 
pianner, or do nothin'. You must count 
me out." "We won't do nothin' of the sort. 
You kin speak a piece," says she. "Speak 
a piece!" says I, "why I aint done sech a 
thing as that sence I was knee high to a 
toad." Then she said somethin' 'bout 
shirkin', an' how that we was all sisters an' 
well-disposed to one 'nother, an' finally I 
consented to do my best. 

I found an old scrap-book up in the attic 
an' I picked out a piece of po'try that 
sounded ruther elevatin', an' I tell you, Mis' 
Wise, I worked like a nailer, for the next 
fortnit. I'd ruther a-weeded the onion bed 
(an' that's back-achin' work) a dozen times 
than larnt that piece ; but I got it, word for 
word. Then I took my old gray alapaca 
and colored it blue. It looked real stylish, 
'specially the bask. 

Well! when the evenin' came, I was on 
hand as early as any of 'em. Malviny Sweet 
sang a touchin' little song, and Mis' Salter's 
oldest girl played a piece on the fiddle. 
Funny thing for a girl to learn, aint it? I 
suppose it was good, for they cheered her 
back twice. I couldn't make out no tune to 
it, and three or four times I thought she 
was goin' to break down, for her hand 
shook so. 

Then they called on me, an' I picked up 
my book an' started down the hall, deter- 
mined to try an' please 'em; but I hadn't 
got half way to the platform before I heard 
some one say: "Ain't she a show!" I 



dropped my handkerchief, an' when I 
stooped to pick it up, Sally Rines said I 
"waddled like a duck," an' Mis' Meachem, 
who asked me to jine, said to Mis' Kindly, 
loud enough for me to hear, that she didn't 
think I would be willin' to make such a 
fool of myself! Well, my face was as red 
as fire by the time I took the stand, an' I 
never was madder in my life, but I was 
bound to speak that piece or perish in the 
attempt ! 

I started in an' spoke every verse. It was 
a solemn kind of piece, about a boy who was 
burned up on a ship ruther than leave the 
spot where his father had told him to stay. 
Nothin' very funny about that; but that 
crowd giggled an' laffed as if I was a hull 
minstrel show, makin' jokes for 'em. 
After I got through, they cheered an' 
stamped like mad. I didn't leave the plat- 
form, so they thought I was goin' to speak 
agin, so they quieted down, an' I says: 
"Mis' President an' members of this society, 
I'd like to say a few words that aint printed 
in no book, so I didn't learn 'em. I bleeve 
there is somethin' in your by-laws that 
charges every sister to be true to one 
'nother, an' if any one fails in her duty an' 
wilfully injures the feelin's of a feller sis- 
ter, a forfeit can be imposed on to her by the 
said injured party. I've lived up to them 
rules sence I jined this society, an' I aint 
got very rich out of it neither. To be sure 
I've had some good suppers, but I could 
have cooked jest as good an' et 'em to home. 
When I promised to speak a piece to-night 
it wasn't for glory or money, but because 
I wouldn't shirk my dooty. I heard Sister 

B talk about my dress, an' Sister R 

doesn't like the way I walk, while Sister 
M hates to see me make a fool of my- 
self. Now, accordin' to your statoots, I de- 
mand that them sisters get up on this plat- 
form an' entertain me. Let me see if they 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



361 



can do any better than I've done. I s'pose 

Sister B has forgot the time when we 

was gals, an' she borrowed my red cash- 
mere, dress to wear to a dance at Gill's Cor- 
ner. People are apt to forgit, as they git on 
in years; an' I presume I didn't waddle 

when Sister R asked me to run for a 

doctor, the night her Johnnie had the croup ; 
but we'll let these things pass; only, to be 
fair an' square an' to live up to them by- 
laws, Mis' President, I demand that those 
sisters speak me a piece." 

You don't bleeve I said it? Well, I did, 
as true as my name is Sylvy Hook ! an' the 



president had to ask 'em to do as I said, 
but, of course, they wouldn't do it; jest got 
mad an' resigned. I did, too, so you see the 
society aint as big as 'twas, but perhaps it'll 
set 'em to thinkin' that by-laws is by-laws, 
an' we're all human critters an' don't enjoy 
bein' tromped on. 

But, land sake ! it's five o'clock an' I want 
to make some cream biscuits for supper. I 
know you like 'em, so, if you'll jest excuse 
me, I'll step out into the kitchen an' get 
'em into the oven. Make yourself to home 
now an' I'll be back in a few minutes. 

— Belle Marshall Locke. 



*3* t&* «<5* 



THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 



GOOD-MORNING, Doctor; how do 
you do? I hain't quite so well as I 
have been ; but I think I'm some better than 
I was. I don't think that last medicine you 
gin me did me much good. I had a terrible 
time with the earache last night; my wife 
got up and drapt a few draps of walnut sap 
into it, and that relieved it some; but I 
didn't get a wink of sleep till nearly day- 
light. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had 
the worst kind of a narvous headache; it 
has been so bad sometimes that I thought 
my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I 
sometimes think that I'm the most afflicted- 
est human that ever lived. 

Since this cold weather sot in that 
troublesome cough, that I have had every 
winter for the last fifteen year, has began 
to pester me agin. (Coughs.) Doctor, do 
you think you can give me anything that 
will relieve this desprit pain I have in my 
side? 

Then I have a crick at times in the back 
of my neck, so that I can't turn my head 
without turning the hull of my body. 
(Coughs.) 



Oh, dear! What shall I do? I have 
consulted almost every doctor in the coun- 
try, but they don't any of them seem to un- 
derstand my case. I have tried everything 
that I could think of ; but I can't find any- 
thing that does me the leastest good. 
( Coughs. ) 

Oh, this cough — it will be the death of 
me yet! You know I had my right hip 
put out last fall at the rising of Deacon 
Jones' saw-mill; it's getting to be very 
troublesome just before we have a change 
of weather. Then I've got the sciatica in 
my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crip- 
pled up that I can hardly crawl around in 
any fashion. 

What do you think that old white mare 
of ours did while I was out plowing last 
week? Why, the weacked old critter, she 
kept a backing and backing, ontil she 
backed me right up agin the colter, and 
knock'd a piece of skin off my shin nearly 
so big. (Coughs.) 

But I had a worse misfortune than that 
the other day, Doctor. You see it was 
washing-day — and my wife wanted me to 



362 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



go out and bring in a little stove-wood — you 
know we lost our help lately, and my wife 
has to wash and tend to everything about 
the house herself. 

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go 
out — as it was a-raining at the time — but I 
thought I'd risk it, anyhow. So I went 
out, picked up a few chunks of stove-wood, 
and was a-coming up the steps into the 
house when my feet slipped from under me 
and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been 



shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, 
broke down the bridge of my nose, cut my 
upper lip and knocked out three of my front 
teeth. I suffered dreadfully on account of 
it, as you may suppose, and my face ain't 
well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, 
'specially by the women folks. (Coughs.) 
Oh, dear ! but that ain't all, Doctor ; I've got 
fifteen corns on my toes — and I'm afeard 
I'm a-going to have the "yeller janders." 
(Coughs.) Dr. Valentine. 



t&N t&N t&* 

RHOOMATIZ OR SUTHIN' ELSE. 

(A monologue.) 



UGH! ugh— oh! 
If I only could 
Make this old leg go ! 
What 't tiz — 
Rhoomatiz, 
Er suthin' else, — 
Doctors now, they dun know ; 
There, / do b'lieve 
This ol' leg can go! 

• • • % 

Now, ef Sally Ann 
Sh'd stay 'way 
Long nuf, 

B'lieve I'd try, an' try, 
All day. 

There, 

That aint so bad ! 
(Scat! Sca-at! 
Con-found that cat 
Hangin' roun' ! 
Guess I'm narvus.) 
Huh — what's that soun'? 
P'r'aps I'd best be settlin' down, 
For — what if Sally Ann should 
Come back 

Suddin-like, an' see me 
Gallavantin' roun', 
An' sh'u'd say: 



"Tim'thy Smith, 

Ef you can walk 

I guess you could 

Chop wood!" 

That way — 

Tho' 'taint her way; 

But — then — this here stitch 

I' my side, 

An' this pain — un hitch 

In my back! 

Kin straighten up more'n I thought, tho' ! 

So-o-o ! 

Why e-e ? 

Why, wouldn't it be a joke on me 

Ef Sally Ann's right when 

She laughs an' sez 

That "a mail's twict as like to set, 

An' set, an' set, 

Ez a hen " 

She jes' said 't fur fun, tho'; 

Talkin' o' some one else — not me! 

She aint that kind — no-o ! 

Huh, ho, oh — 

There 'tis ag'in, 

That pain ! 

What ? Come in ! 
Thought I heerd suthin', — 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



363 



Nothin' but the win', — 

Guess it's blowin' up a rain! 

Hope now Sally Ann won't git wet, 

Er fret 

Fur fear her ol', 

Good-fur-nothin' man 

'LI ketch col'— 

Jes' like Sally Ann ! 

Ye-es, jes' — like — Sally Ann! 

'N mebby I haint bin 

Won'er she don't git turb'l tired out 
Workin' 

Year out an' year in ! 
Yes, an' gittin' thin, 
An' peaked like. 

This time 'tis some 'n drivin up, — 
Brown ! Comin' here — 
Hitchin' his horse? 
Kinder queer ; he '11 think this queer, 
Me standin' here, — 
But I swan I don' keer 
What he thinks or knows ! 
Jes' — sit' pose 
(I'm puttin' it to m'self) 
/ had gi'n up too easy like! 
Mebby the idee 
Wouldn't strike er shock 
Some folks as 'twould me! 
Hum — well, — 

Come in ! Don' wait t' knock ! 
Ye-es, I'm up — tryin' my stren'th ; 
Hope I'm feelin' pretty strong — cause- 
Cause what? 

You say "I'd be a poor lot 
Without Sally Ann?" 
Brown ! Man 

Don't tell me! Where's m' hat? 
Don' tell me — that — that — 
Or I'll knock y' down. 

Laughin'? You "hed to"— the idee 
Uv me 

Knockin' uv you er enny one down ? 
I wuz — never min' — what o' that — 



I mean what o' her, Brown ? 

Jes' "hurt — some?" 

An' y'r wife thought seein' I wuz lame 

Y'd better? So you come 

T carry me to Sally Ann ? 

Thank — you — 

We can go quicker that way. 

But — SAY 

Brown, ef Sally Ann once gits back here 

She'll set, not me, in that there cheer 

From then till nex' year! 

Y'r laughin' agin? 

Aint hurt as bad's that? 

That's good — good! 

But / be Brown ! 

To think I've sot there 

An' let her split kin'lin wood, 

An' do the chores, 

When mabby I could — 

I don' know's I could ; 

But mebby 'f I'd thought I could, 

/ could — better' n she could! 

Yes, yes ! Kind o' you to say 

"Never min' that t' day" — 

But / do, Brown! 

Sho — oh — oh/ {bracing himself) 

Never min' my leg — 

Le's go ! le's go ! 

A FORTNIGHT LATER. 

Don' this seem good 

To be back hum ? 

I vum, 

It seems some like livin' ag'in 

To see you, Sally Ann, here, 

In that ol' cheer! 

O' course, Brown's folks can't be beat 

Fer hospitality ! 

Thet wife o' hisen's jist ez neat 

'S you be ! 

An' as pleasant-like tew ! 

Don't al'ys go together, — 

Mos' al'ys squally weather, 



364 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



Ha, ha, where y' can almost eat 
Off'n the floor!" 

There, I mustn't talk any more 

Jes' now; 

You go on tellin' me how 

To make bread; 

When all's said 

I orto know how ; 

Watchin' of you do an' do, 

I've sed to m'se'f 

A hundred an' fifty times, I guess : 

"Look there ! 

Who'd think that sticky lot 

O' water an' the rest, 

She'd turn into the best 

Bread ever any one see!" 

Law me, 

You'r laughin' at me 

Jest as you did,— 

D' you remember when, Sally Ann? 

Wan't them apple trees pink that spring ? 

An' how them birds did sing ! 

An' how I watched from under that tree 

Fur t' see 



How that rich feller looked when he 

Rode away 

From your house that day. 

Looked? Well, I guess! 

He didn't see me, — 

Nor nothin' ! 

But I see him 

From back o' a limb 

Full o' flowers; 

An' how them birds did sing- — 

Like — like anything! 

He didn't notice 'em, — 

They sung for me ! 

Them wuz happy hours, 

Wa'n't they, Sally Ann ! 

(Aside.) 
There, she's laughin' agi'n, — 
She's goin' to git well, I know. 
Where's the water an' the flour — 
An', an' — the dish an' th' spoon — 
B'lieve / could jump over the moon, 

[Slaps his leg and attempts to jump. 
Fur, rhoomatiz or whatever 'tiz, 
This ol' leg can go! 

— E. S. Stillwell. 



%0* t&* t£& 



AUNTY DOLEFUL CHEERS THE SICK. 



HOW do you do, Cornelia? I heard 
you were sick, and I stopped in to 
cheer you up a little. My friends often 
say : "It's such a comfort to see you, Aunty 
Doleful. You have such a flow of conver- 
sation and are so lively." Besides, I said 
to myself as I came up the stairs : "Perhaps 
this is the last time I'll ever see Cornelia 
Jane alive." 

You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, 
now, how do you know? You can't tell. 
You think you're gettin' better, but there 
was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up, and every 
one saying how smart she was, and all of 



a sudden she was taken with spasms in the 
heart and went off like^ a flash. But you 
must be careful and not get excited. Keep 
quite calm, and don't fret about anything. 
Of course, things can't go just as if you 
was down-stairs ; and I wondered whether 
you knew your little Billy was sailing about 
in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your 
little Sammy was letting your little Jimmy 
adown from the veranda roof in a clothes 
basket. 

Goodness ! What's the matter ? I guess 
Providence '11 take care of 'em; don't look 
so. You thought Bridget was watchin* 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



365 



them ? No ; I saw her talking to a man at 
the gate. He looks to me like a burglar. 
There was a family at Knob Hill last week 
all killed for fifty dollars. Yes, indeed. 
Now, don't fidget so ; it will be bad for the 
baby. 

Poor little dear ! - How sing'lar it is, to 
be sure, that you can't tell whether a child 
is blind, or deaf and dumb, or a cripple, at 
that age. It might be all and you'd never 
know it. Most of them that have their 
senses make bad use of them, though ; that 
ought to be your comfort, if it does turn 
out to have anything dreadful the matter 
with it. 

How is Mr. Knobble? Well, but finds 
it warm in town, eh ? Well, I should think 
he would. They are dropping down by 
hundreds there from sunstroke. You must 
prepare your mind for anything. Then, a 
trip on these railroad trains is just a-riskin' 



your life every time you take one. Back 
and forth as he is, it's just a-triflin' with 
danger. Don't forget now, Cornelia, that 
the doctor said you must keep calm. 

Dear! dear! now to think what dreadful 
things hang over us all the time! Oh, 
dear! Scarlet fever has broken out in the 
village, Cornelia. Little Isaac Porter has 
it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him 
last Saturday. 

Well, I must be going now. I've got an- 
other sick friend, and I shan't think my 
duty done unless I cheer her up a little be- 
fore I sleep. Good-bye. How pale you 
look, Cornelia. I don't believe you have a 
good doctor. Do send him away and get 
somebody else. You don't look as well as 
you did when I came in. 

If anything happens send for me at once. 
If I can't do anything else I can cheer you 
up a little. 

— Mary Kyle Dallas. 



t&* t&fr t£& 



THE MASQUERADE. 



(A dramatic monologue; to be given either as 
conditions, or in full court costume, with 

I FEEL like quite a gay young sport again 
In this costume of which I was so vain ! 
It fits to-night very snug in places ; 
Ah, well, time changes both our forms and 
faces. 

This is my first masquerade ball since — 
Why will that one face come before me, 
Flitting out and in among the throng 
Like a will-o'-the-wisp ? 
I was a gay young coxcomb then ; how 
Years leave their gray shadow on one's 

brow! 
Then I filled life's gleaming crystal glass 
With pleasure, letting some golden chances 

pass. 
Butterflies and moths — disregarding sex — 



an impersonation by suggesting the various 
stage-setting and suitable properties.) 

Will seek the flowers where radiance re- 
flects. 

When first I stood before my mirror and 
this 

Coat was new, with what fastidious ac- 
curacy 

I set my wig aright. 

Each wave and puff must stand in certain 
place, 

To lend seductive charm to youthful face. 

The lace that clung in snowy whiteness then 
around my hands 

Has yellowed with Time's passing sands. 

Ha, Ha, I'll never forget Bronson that 
night ; he was my guest ; 



3GG 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



The costume that he wore, — that of a cow- 
boy from the West. 

He looked the part, and he used to blush 
and start 

At sound of certain steps outside the door ; 

Blushed, but I could judge from nothing 
more. 

When ready, I in courtly guise, 
He with a daring flash within his eyes, 
Proposed I should teach him the new step 
We were to dance that night in the minuet. 

With what a lordly, overweening grace 
I set for him the proper pace (imitating). 
Just in the midst of outward glide, 
My chamber door flung open wide, 
Where, laughing fit to kill, 
Stood my old black servant, Dill. 

"Well done, Massa Don, 

Youse'll win de prize if yo' keep on ! 

Pomp said, 'tell young massa de carriage 
wait, 

And it am growin' berry late/ ' 

"How do you like me, Dill?" I cried, 

(From boyhood I had been her pride.) 

"Oh, Massa Don, you look — 

Ho, ho ! jes' like a picture from a book. 

Sho, honey, 'twould not poor old Dill sur- 
prise, 

If some young missy link likewise." 

Then Bronson threw his cloak around his 
form, 

And I my mantle rich and warm — 

Where has Tom put those roses (search- 
ing) ? 

She, too, was fond of crimson posies. 

To-night I'll carry them in memory 

Of when she was more than all the world 
to me. 

Bah! Why do all these misty velvets and 
laces 

Remind me so of long gone faces ? 



My hat (looking about), — ah, here itis, — 
A trifle worn and wrinkled like my phiz. 
Gad ! I don't walk with quite the stride 
I used to in those my days of pride. 

The thoughts of music and the flowers 
Turn back the pages of the hours. 
There, a buckle's missing from my shoe ; 
Tom doesn't watch things like he used to 
do. 

Nay; that reminds me. 'Twas midnight, — 
Almost the hour to lift the masks, not quite. 
We had flirted, chatted, danced, 
Until she held me quite entranced. 
Bronson had tried his best to cut me out, 
Until I thought him quite a beastly lout. 
'Twas she, I knew. No other feet 
Could fit a number one complete ; 
No other form so rounded quite, 
As this, the sparkling queen of night. 
I knew her, but would not betray, 
For I, too, had a part to play. 
I'd loved her years ; had promised long 
That from this night she would to me be- 
long. 

'Twas by the fountain where flowers sweet, 
Made dream of love the more complete. 
I held her hand, then sinking on my knee, 
Spoke, while my heart thrilled tenderly : 

"Hortense, I love you madly, will you " 

Then pierced the silence through and 

through, 
The call, "Masks off, the hour has come!" 
Then — well, I was stricken dumb ! 
For there before me, wreathed in smiles, 
Sat the old, frisky, widow Miles. 
Fifty if ever she had seen a day, 
Married when I was a child at play. 
And Hortense? — well, she is Bronson's 

wife, 
A social queen in gay, high life. 

Just a glance at the evening news (taking 
up paper) , 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



367 



Politics will crush, perchance, love's muse. 
Heavens ! Why, what's this I see ? 
"To-night, at a masquerade, Mrs. Keene 
Will introduce an old-time social queen, 
Mrs. Bronson, wife of the late well-known 



man 



Who made his millions in the mine Volan.' 



Free ! Hortense, do you think my face 
Looks too old to enter the race ? 
I'll not count years by cycle of time, 
But, by my heart's wild, maddening chime. 
My roses ! For her? Yes. Au-revoir ! 
— Mrs. Franklin Hall. 



«(5* £fc t&* 



A PRIVATE REHEARSAL. 



(A monologue.) 



Scene. — A room, zvith door center and side 
exit; famished with table, desk, screen, 
easy chair, conch, chairs, bric-a-brac, etc. 
Mrs. Lovely discovered at left of table, 
sewing on gentleman's coat. 

THERE, the buttons are all on, the collar 
sponged and the coat looks as good as 
new. Dear old Hal ! how happy I am when 
I can do anything for his comfort. Poor 
boy, I'm afraid he works very hard. I 
noticed this morning that he was looking 
pale and tired. No wonder, for he has been 
writing every evening for a week — extra 
copying, he says. Mr. Grindem is a regular 
old miser anyway — I've often heard papa 
say that — and he makes a drudge of Hal, 
just because he is so good-natured. But it's 
no use talking, he says he shall never be 
thoroughly happy until he can give me as 
good a home as he took me from. 

What nonsense ! (Rises, arranges pillows 
on couch, folds afghan, etc.) when I like 
this cosy little flat twice as well as papa's 
grand, old house. Dearie me ! he has never 
forgiven me for marrying a poor man and 
he says the time will surely come when I 
shall beg to return to him. (Takes photo 
from desk and looks at it.) Leave Harry! 
that makes me smile. If papa only knew 
him; but men can't get acquainted — es- 



pecially a young man and an elderly one. 
It takes a woman to find the best side of a 
man's nature, and I know that I have mar- 
ried a saint. I feel rather guilty to think 
I have a secret. (Seats herself at right of 
table.) I little thought, when I was at 
Madam Lamont's, and took an extra course 
in painting, that I'd ever really earn money 
with my brush ; but I did — twenty-five dol- 
lars, at Christmas. It was great fun — just 
like a bit of masquerading — when I put on 
the plainest little hat I had, and a veil, so 
thick no one could know me, and walked 
into Dayton's Art Store and showed them a 
sample of my work. How my heart did 
beat, when the man adjusted his glasses, so, 
and looking at my little placque, in this way, 
said: "Ahem! it is very fair, miss." And 
when he gave me an order, I could have 
screamed with delight! But the very fun- 
niest thing of it all was when Harry brought 
me one of my own frames (taking frame 
from table) for a Christmas gift. How my 
cheeks burned when he said : "It was such 
a dainty little thing, I knew you would like 
it." I could hardly resist throwing my 
arms around his neck and crying: "I did 
it !" but that would never do, for I wanted 
to earn money enough to buy him an easy- 
chair for his birth-day gift. (Goes to easy- 



368 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



chair left, arranges tidy on it.) I do hope 
he will like it. When the man brought it 
this morning he said: "The springs are 
good, ma'am, and the arms are wide." I 
tried to look dignified, but it was a failure 
and I burst out laughing. I can't appear 
like an old married woman, if I try, besides 
what's the fun in being a three-months' 
bride, if you can't act a bit foolish? Well, 
I might as well hang the coat away and find 
something to busy myself about until Hal 
comes home. I told him I was going to 
spend the day with Dollie Wells, but I be- 
lieve I won't, for she does nothing but talk 
about her lover, and won't give me a chance 
to speak of Harry. ( Takes coat from chair 
and starts to go; as she throws it over her 
arm, discovers something protruding from 
pocket.) Oh, he's always stuffing his 
pockets full ! Never got over the school- 
boy fashion, I suppose. {Takes out pack- 
age.) What is this, I wonder. A box of 
candy, that he forgot to give me, I suppose. 
(Unties package.) The dear, thoughtful 
fellow ! Why no, it's a box of grease- 
paints ! What in the world does he want 
with these ? Probably he got them for some 
of the boys at the office. Arn't they funny 
little things, these sticks. But they do make 
a plain woman look just lovely under the 
glare of the foot-lights. I remember at 
school when we played "Cricket on the 
Hearth," Dorothy Freeman played Dot. She 
isn't a bit pretty ; but after she was "made 
up," as they call it, she was too sweet for 
anything. (Takes hand-mirror from table 
and looks at herself.) Wonder how I 
should look. Let' s see — this is for the lips. 
(Touches lips with grease-paint.) There! 
that's a rose-bud mouth! Why couldn't 
people have naturally such a sweet little 
pucker (makes up eyebrows), and there's a 
pair of arched brows (rouges cheeks), and 
those cheeks are glowing with blushes. 



(Rises.) Now I could float into a room and 
meet my lover, with all the grace of a stage- 
heroine. Something like this: "Charence! 
so you have returned!" and then he says 
something too awfully sweet and I should 
say: "Spare my blushes!" but with that 
stuff on my cheeks there would be a never- 
fading glow. (Goes to table.) What a 
dear little puff! (Powders face.) It's a 
positive luxury to feel that on your face. 
(Looks in mirror.) And now my roses 
have gone, "buried under the snow," so to 
speak, and I am as pale as the actress I saw 
the other night. Oh, she was positively 
ghastly, when she found her husband was 
false. What a dreadful thing that would be 
in real life! I am sure it would kill me. 
(Starts up.) What's that noise? (Tip- 
toes to door, center, and listens.) Why, it's 
Harry returned! What in the world 
brought him home so soon! (Listens.) 
Some one is with him, too! (Starts to 
enter.) Stop! I can't show myself with 
my face like this. I wonder who it can be. 
Never mind, it won't matter if I don't go in. 

Hal thinks I'm away and (Listens.) 

What's he saying? (Repeats.) "Now she's 
gone, Til have a chance?" Have a chance 
for what? (Listens again, and repeats.) 
"Be seated, Nell, and listen?" Nell ! who's 
Nell? (Listens again, repeating his words.) 
"You shall not leave me until I have told 
you of my love?" Good heavens! my — my 
husband speaking like that to a woman ! 
(Listens again.) Now he is talking so low 
I cannot hear a word. Oh, my heart is 
throbbing so! (Listens again.) Not a 
word ! Probably he has her in his arms, her 
head on his shoulder — oh, I shall die ! Ah ! 
he is speaking again ! (Listens and again 
repeats.) "I will burst these bonds and you 
shall yet be mine?" Oh ! Oh ! (Staggers 
down stage.) I cannot listen — I have heard 
enough ! The traitor ! He will burst these 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



369 



bonds! Does he mean to murder me? 
( Throws herself into chair left of table and 
hides her face in her hands, sobbing.) And 
to think I — I — trusted him so ! thought him 
so perfect (rising) ! But I will not remain 
another hour in his house ! Papa was right ! 
The time has come when I am glad to re- 
turn to him. The cruel, perfidious wretch ! 
I will write a note and leave it on his desk, 
saying I heard his little interview with Nell, 
and preferred to "burst the bonds" myself ! 
Oh, the misery an hour can bring! This 
morning I was so light-hearted and happy, 
and now — now my heart is breaking! 
(Seats herself at desk, picks up lener lying 
on desk.) I wonder who his correspondents 
are. Possibly this is from that — that wo- 
man! We will see! (Opens letter and 
reads. ) 

"Dear Mr. Henshaw : Your little Com- 
edy is just what our Club needs and has 
been accepted. Enclosed find check for 
same. We remember your talent as an 
amateur actor and if you will consent to fill 
the role of Ralph, we will make it an object 
for you to do so. My daughter, Sue, will 
essay the part of Nell. I shall be most hap- 
py to recommend your dramatic writings 
to Catchem & Buyem and predict a brilliant 
future for you as a play-wright. 
Yours Truly, 

James H. Underwood. 

President of Wonolancet Club." 



(Breathlessly.) Harry a writer of plays ! 
Sue Underwood to play the part of Nell! 

Why, that's the name of (Points to 

door, rising.) What an impulsive little fool 
I've been ! That explains the grease-paints ! 
So he has been having a private rehearsal ! 
Has been thinking to surprise me with his 
success and the money it will bring. I re- 
member he told me last night, I was to have 
that lovely blue silk at Stylem's soon, and I 
laughed at the extravagant idea. To think 
he has been working like this for me and I 
— I — was about to leave him! (Comes 
down.) But he shall never know what a 
little fool I have been, never! Oh, I'm so 
happy, I can scarcely restrain myself; but 
I must be cautious, or he will hear me ! I'll 
just run softly up to my room, wash this 
mask off, slip on my things and come in at 
the front door, so he will think I have just 
returned ; and then I'll put my arms around 
his neck and tell him he's the dearest fellow 
in the world ! (Listens at door again.) He 
is still at it, the dear boy! (Shakes finger 
at door.) Talk away! Make love to your 
imaginary Nell ! ( Tip toes up left, turns 
at door.) But when the real part of it is 
acted I'll be there ! [Exit. 

CURTAIN. 



t&* fcT* &5» 

barcarolle. 

(A rhythmical monologue to be given to the accompaniment of the well-known Barcarolle.) 

While night and fall of ripples, all 
Make music more than musical. 



THE gondolier, in music clear, 
His lady-love is serenading 
From his gondola, while his softiguitar 

In tinkling sweetness is persuading 
The sleeping maiden, with visions laden, 
To quickly rise and hear his sighs, 



Awake, my love ! though stars above 

In witchery are peeping, 
Far more I prize the starry eyes 

That now are veiled in sleeping. 



370 



CLEVER MONOLOGUES. 



And while he sings, how sweetly rings 

The melody ; now rises firmer 
The barcarolle ; and now a lull 

As soft as an Aeolian murmur; 
Now madly sighing with love, now dying, 
And soft and low and sweet and slow, 
And low again ; 'tis almost pain 
To hear the gondolier's refrain, 

Awake, my love ! though stars above 

In witchery are peeping, 
Far more I prize the starry eyes 
That now are veiled in sleeping. 



She wakes, she hears ; her ravished ears 

Are drinking all her lover's praises ; 
They send a start to her vain heart ; 

With noiseless steps she steals, and raises 
The curtain slyly, and peeping shyly, 
The teasing sprite hides with delight, 
Smiles at the strain with mock disdain, 
And pouts her lips and smiles again. 

Awake, my love ! though stars above 

In witchery are peeping, 
Far more I prize the starry eyes 
That now are veiled in sleeping. 
— Ben Wood Davis. 



f£& <£* t&* 



MARK TWAIN'S MINING STORY. 



JOHN JAMES GODFREY was hired 
by the Hayblossom Mining Company 
in California to do some blasting for them — 
the "Incorporated Company of Mean Men," 
the boys used to call it. Well, one day he 
drilled a hole about four feet deep and put 
in an awful blast of powder, and was stand- 
ing over it ramming it down with an iron 
crowbar about nine feet long, when the 
blamed thing struck a spark and fired the 
powder, and scat! away John Godfrey 
whizzed like a sky-rocket, him and his 
crowbar! Well, sir, he kept on going up 
in the air higher and higher, till he didn't 
look any bigger than a boy — and he kept 
going on up higher and higher till he didn't 
look any bigger than a doll — and he kept 
on going up higher and higher till he didn't 
look any bigger than a small bee — and then 



he went out of sight. Presently he came 
in sight again, looking like a little small 
bee — and he came along down further and 
further, till he looked as big as a doll again 
— and down further and further till he was 
as big as a boy again — and further and 
further, till he was a full-sized man once 
more, and then him and his crowbar came 
a-whizzing down and lit* right exactly in 
the same old tracks and went to r-ramming 
down, and r-ramming down, and r-ram- 
ming down again, just the same as if noth- 
ing had happened! Now, do you know, 
that poor fellow was gone but fifteen min- 
utes, and yet that Incorporated Company 
of Mean Men docked him for the fif- 
teen minutes lost time while he was 
gone up in the air! 



r — : 



L 







The selections in this department have been made to meet the needs of very little children 
who want recitations that are short and pleasing. 

'-•5* 17* V7* 

CHILDREN'S ALPHABET. 

This is very pretty when each little one holds or raises above her head as she speaks, a capital 
letter covered with evergreens or flowers. 



A is the alphabet that little folks learn ; 

B is for books, coming next in their turn ; 

C is for clock, making time in its flight; 

D is for desk, where we study and write ; 

E is for early ones, who are prompt at 
the call ; 

F is for friendship, which we cherish for 
all; 

G is for goodness, may each have a share ; 

H is for honesty — we hope it's not rare; 

I is for idleness, we fight every day ; 

J is for judgment, which governs our 
way ; 

K is for kindness towards schoolmates 
and friends; 

L is for love, which our pathway attends ; 

M is for music — which brightens our 
way; 



N is for noon, the time we can play; 

O is for order, it's rules we'll not break ; 

P is the progress, we hope we shall make ; 

Q is the question, to which answer we 
find; 

R is the rule which we ever will mind ; 

S is the school, which we love every 
day; 

T is for truth, which shall guide all we 
say; 

U is for union, in all that is right ; 

V is for virtue, may it ever be bright ; 
W is for welcome, which all our friends 

claim ; 

X is this cross with our fingers we frame ; 

Y is our youth, the time to improve; 

Z is for zealous, in work that we love. 






T 



HE fiddlers were scraping so cheerily, 
O, 
With a one, two, three, and a one, two, 
three, 

And the children were dancing so merrily, 
O, ' 
All under the shade of the Christmas-tree. 



THE CHRISTMAS BALL. 

The fiddlers they rosined their squeaking 
bows, 
And the brave little lads their partners 
swung. 



O, bonny the fruit on its branches which 
grows ! 
And the mistletoe bough from the ceiling 
hung ! 



Oh, the fiddlers they played such a merry 
tune, 
With a one, two, three, and a one, two, 
three, 
And the children they blossomed like roses 
in June, 



371 



372 



TINY TOTS. 



All under the boughs of the Christmas- 
tree. 

And the fiddlers were scraping so merrily, 

O, 
With a one, two, three, and a one, two, 

three, 
And the children were dancing so cheerily, 

6, 

All under the shade of the Christmas-tree. 

When, all of a sudden, a fairy-land crew 
Came whirling airily into the room, 

As light as the fluffy balls, they flew, 

Which fly from the purple thistle-bloom. 

There were little girl-fairies in cobweb 

frocks 

All spun by spiders from golden threads, 

With butterfly-wings and glistening locks, 

And strings of dewdrops encircling their 

heads ! 

There were little boy- fairies in jeweled 
coats 



Of pansy-velvet, of cost untold, 
With chains of daisies around their throats, 
And their heads all powdered with lily 
gold! 

The fiddlers they laughed till they scarce 

could see, 

And then they fiddled so cheerily, O, 

And the fairies and children around the 

tree, 

They all went tripping so merrily, O. 

The fiddlers they boxed up their fiddles all; 

The fairies they silently flew away ; 
But every child at the Christmas ball, 

Had danced with a fairy first, they say. 

So they told their mothers — and did not you 

Ever have such a lovely time at your play, 

My boy and my girl, that it seemed quite 

true 

That you'd played with a fairy all the 

day? 



t3& *2& to* 



THE BABIES' BEDTIME. 



SW^EET are children in the morning, in 
the afternoon or night, 
In their dainty frocks of red and blue or 

gowns of simple white, 
In their play up in the playroom, in the yard 

or on the lawn, 
But they're sweetest when it's bedtime and 
they get their "nighties'' on. 

Little ghosts of white a-romping o'er the 

bed and through the room ; 
In the season of a lifetime they're the rosy 

month of June. 
Little ghosts of white a-marching to the 

music of their laugh, 
And the one whoe'er would miss it sees in 

life its minor half. 



Little curls a-dangling, frowsy, to the heads 

a fitting wreath, 
Little gowns a-hanging loosely and the 

peeping feet beneath. 
Merry monarchs of the household and their 

love as is the fawn, 
And they're sweetest when it's bedtime and 

they've got their "nighties" on. 

Oh, the clear notes of their laughter, and 

the patter of their feet, 
As they romp and chase each other in the 

game of hide and seek, 
Gives a hint of faint suspicion of the world! 

that is to be, 
For the Master taught us, saying, "Suffer 

these to come to me !" 



TINT TOTS. 



373 



Soon fatigue o'ercomes the players, and the 

white brigade is still, 
And the "Now I lay me" whispered with a 

pleading and a will ! 
Oh, the wee tots are in slumber, and their 

dreams are in repose, 
For the clearness of a conscience rivals 

beauties of the rose. 



And the white, up turned, sweet visage adds 
to innocence the charm 

Of the soul reposing trust upon the guar- 
dian angel's arm ; 

Oh, the sweetest scented nectar flowing 
from this life is gone 

If you cannot see the babies when they get 
their "nighties" on ! 



t&& c5* ^* 

PARTNERSHIP. 

(The speaker should hold a kitten in her arms, and appear to address the mother cat.) 



Y 



OU needn't be looking around at me so, 
She's my kitten as much as your kit- 
ten, you know, 
And I'll take her wherever I wish her to go ! 

You know very well that, the day she was 

found, 
If I hadn't cried, she'd surely been 

drowned ; 
And you ought to be thankful she's here 

safe and sound ! 

She is only crying 'cause she's a goose. 
I'm not squeezing her, look now, my arms 

are quite loose, 
And she may as well hush, for it's not any 

use. 



And you may as well get right down and go 

'way; 
You're not in the thing we're going to play ; 
And remember, it isn't your half of the day. 

You're forgetting the bargain we made, and 

so soon! 
In the morning she's mine, and yours all 

afternoon ; 
And you couldn't teach her to eat with a 

spoon. 

So don't let me hear one single mew ! 

Do you know what will happen right off 

if you do? 
She'll be my kitten mornings and afternoons 

too. 

— Margaret Vandegrift. 



t&* K&& 5*5* 



MY DEAR TRUE-LOVE. 

(For a little boy, on Saint Valentine's Day.) 



THE stars are very beautiful 
Up in the far-off skies ; 
But, oh ! more beautiful to me 

Are my own true-love's eyes. 
The songs the little birdies sing, 
When morning things rejoice, 
Are very sweet, but far more sweet 
Is my dear true-love's voice. 



I like to feel upon my cheek 

The gentle summer air, 
But better far I like to feel 

My true-love's kisses there. 
I love my true-love more, — yes, more 

Than wind, or song, or star; 
My true-love ? Who is my true-love ? 

My own sweet, good mamma! 



374 



TINY TOTS. 



ADAM never knew what 'twas to be a 
boy, 
To wheedle pennies from a doting sire, 
With which to barter for some pleasing toy, 
Or calm the rising of a strong desire 

To suck an orange. Nor did he 

E'er cast the shuttlecock to battledoor ; 

Nor were his trousers ever out at knee, 
From playing marbles on the kitchen 
floor. 

He never skated o'er the frozen rill, 

When winter's covering o'er the earth 
was spread ; 

Nor ever glided down the slippery hill, 
With pretty girls upon his trusty sled. 

He never swung upon his father's gate, 
Or slept in sunshine on the cellar door, 

Nor roasted chestnuts at the kitchen grate, 
Nor spun his humming top upon the floor. 

He ne'er amused himself with rows of 
bricks, 

So set, if one fall, all come down ; 
Nor gazed delighted at the funny tricks 

Of harlequin or traveling circus clown. 



POOR ADAM! 

By gradual growth he never reached the 



age 
When cruel Cupid first invokes his art, 
And stamps love's glowing lesson, page by 

page, 
Upon the tablets of a youngling's heart. 

He never wandered forth on moonlight 
nights, 
With her he loved above all earthly 
things ; 
Nor tried to mount old Pindar's rocky 
heights, 
Because he fancied love had lent him 
wings. 

He never tripped it o'er the ball-room floor, 
Where love and music intertwine their 
charms, 

Nor wandered listless by the sandy shore, 
Debarred the pleasure of his lady's arms. 

For Adam — so at least it has been said 
By many an ancient and a modern sage — 

Before a moment of his life had fled, 
Was fully thirty years of age! 



t&* t£j* C*5* 



RUNNING A 

A LITTLE tear and a little smile set out 
to run a race ; 
We watched them closely all the while; 
their course was baby's face. 



The little tear he got the start; we really 
feared he'd win: 



He ran so fast and made a dart straight for 
the dimpled chin. 



we 



But somehow, — it was very queer; 

watched them all the while, — 
The little shining, fretful tear, got beaten 

by the smile. 



&5* tSr* &5* 



WHERE HE DID IT. 



D 



EAR little Wora, dimpled and fair, 
Under the mistletoe standing there. 



No one was near, no one could see ; 



In a moment he grasped the opportunity. 

Under the mistletoe, under the rose ; 
Under the mistletoe, under the nose. 



TINY TOTS. 



375 



MOTION SONG WITH THE HANDS. 



THIS is the left 
This is the right, 
I put them together 
And clap with my might. 

With my right toward the east, 
And my left toward the west, 

You'll know where sun rises, 
And where it goes to rest. 



North to the front of me, 
South in the back must be, 
Now I do know, 
In which way I go, 

North or East, 

South or West, 
And to the place 

I like the best. 



^W t£w t5* 



IN LIQUOR. 



ONCE a poor little mouse had a fall, 
And it fell in a gallon of wine ; 
"Here," it cried to a cat: "Help me out! 
You may eat me the first time you dine." 

So the pussy complied ; but the fumes 
Brought a sneeze that she couldn't con- 
trol, 
While the gay little mouse, with a laugh, 
Cut a very straight line to a hole. 



When the Tabby was done with her sneeze, 
She exclaimed to the mouse unafraid: 
"Now come out, for I want a good meal; 
Don't go back on the bargain we made." 

Then the mouse laid her thumb on her 

nose, 
And she said with a comical glow : 
"I'm aware of the promise I gave; 
But I then was in liquor, you know." 



t<5* ^5* «<?• 



THE BITTERNESS OF CHILDHOOD. 



WHEN I get settled after tea 
With some big, bully book, 
Ma, she'll commence t' watch the clock ; 

You'd oughter see her look ! 
An' jes' when I get down t' where 

The hero begs for bread, 
Ma's jes' as sure as fate to say, 
"It's time t' go t' bed." 

Or, ef pa knows a funny yarn 

What ain't fer me t' hear 
An' gets so wrapped up tellin' ma 

He clean fergets I'm near, 
You'd better guess she shuts him up; 

She kinder shakes her head, 
Looks solemnlike at me an' says, 

"It's time t' go t' bed." 



An' when they's company at night, 

Don't I wish I could stay 
Down stairs t' watch the big folks an* 

T' hear the things they say ! 
But 'tain't no use a-wishin' things, 

Fer ma comes out ahead 
An' says t' me afore them all, 

"It's time t' go t' bed." 

I'd like t' be an angel in 

A thing what's long an' white 
An' fly around when other folks 

Was sound asleep at night. 
But like as not ma, she'd wake up, 

Not knowin' I was dead, 
An' pull me in the house an' say, 

"It's time t' go t' bed." 



376 



TINY TOTS. 



THREE FOR "THE TOTS." 



1 NEVER made a speech before, 
And cannot say I shall make more; 
But if you'll let me look at you, 
And say to all, "How do you do?" 
I'm sure I'll let you look at me — 
It won't take long, I am so "wee." 
But then I won't be always small ; 
And now I'll throw a kiss to all ! 
And if I live I'll speak next year 
With stronger voice, and have no fear. 



They thought I couldn't make a speech, 
I'm such a little tot. 



I'll show them whether I can do 
A thing or two, or not. * 

Don't be afraid to fight the wrong, 
Or stand up for the right ; 

And when you've nothing else to say, 
Be sure you say — "Good-night." 






I've got three kisses sweet to give ; 

There's one for mother, kind and true, 
And one for father, while I live, 

And all the rest I give to you ! 

[Kisses hand to audience and retires. 
J* 



MINNIE HAD A LITTLE LAMB. 



MINNIE had a little lamb, 
A tender little elf; 
She roasted it and basted it 
And laid it on the shelf. 

She set it on the table 

And heartily did eat 
And thought that pretty little lamb 

A glorious kind of meat. 

But morning, noon and evening 
She wearied of the roast, 



So minced and buttered some of it 
And spread it on some toast. 

And then she broiled a little piece, 
And then a stew made she, 

And next that frisky lamb appeared 
As "Monsieur Fricassee." 

But to assume a giddy guise 
In that old lamb was rash; 

He humbly ended his career 
As plain plebeian hash. 



v** t^% t&& 



IN MANY LANDS. 



THE bonny babe, tossed blithely to and 
fro, 
Rests on Amanda's apron white as snow 
In Lapland. 

Full well he fares, no epicure is he, 
Upon a diet that would frighten me 
In Papland. 

Anon he is an urchin, and must learn 
"Globes" with "geography," and take his 
turn 

In Mapland. 



If he is idle, and his books will flout, 
There is a ruler, and he'll have a bout 
In Rapland. 

Or, it may be, his fate is harder yet, 
And he will spend a time he won't forget 
In Strapland. 



But like the longest lane, the laggard day 
Will end at last, and Tom will sn e away 
In Napland. 



TINY TOTS. 



377 



EASTER MORNING. 



One Voice. 

SNOWDROPS ! lift your timid heads,- 
All the earth is waking ; 
Field and forest, brown and dead, 
Into life are breaking. 
Several Voices. 

Snowdrops, rise and tell the story, 
How He rose, the Lord of glory. 
One Voice. 

Lilies! lilies! Easter calls: 

Rise to meet the dawning 
Of the blessed light that falls 
Through the Easter morning. 



Several Voices. 

Ring your bells and tell the story, 
How He rose, the Lord of glory. 

One Voice. 

Waken, sleeping butterflies ! 

Burst your narrow prison ; 
Spread your golden wings and rise, 

For the Lord is risen. 

Several Voices. 

Spread your wings and tell the story- 
How He rose, the Lord of glory ! 

— Mary A. Lathbury. 



t2r> t£?* c<5* 

A SMALL BOY'S ADVICE. 



MAYBE you'll smile because I try 
About reform to speak ; 
Because I'm only three feet high, 
And have a voice so weak. 



But boys like me, make men like you 
And now you have a chance 

To teach us to be brave and true, 
And vote for Temperance. 



Don't drink that "for your stomach's 
sake," 

That poisons all your breath, 
But hate that cup, and never take, 

That's filled with sin and death. 

Then, by-and-by, when you have done 

The work God called you to, 
We'll take it, where you lay it down, 

And help to carry it through. 



t£* %&fr c5* 



B' 



OTHER!" was all that John Clatter- 
by said; 
His breath came quick and his cheeks were 

red; 
He flourished his elbows and looked ab- 
surd 

While, over and over, his "Bother!" I 
heard. 



THE BOY AND THE BOOT. 

Redder than ever his hot cheek flamed; 
Louder than ever he fumed and blamed; 
He wiggled his heel and he tugged at the 

leather 
Till his knees and his chin came bumping 

together. 



Harder and harder he tugged and worked ; 
Vainly and savagely still he jerked ; 
The boot, half on, would dwaddle and flap, 
"Bother!" and then he burst the strap. 



"My boy," said I, in a voice like a flute, 
"Why not first try your troublesome boot 
On the other foot?" "I'm a goose!" 

laughed John, 
As he stood, in a flash, with his two boots 

on. 



378 



TINY TOTS. 



In half the affairs of this every-day life 
(As that same day I said to my wife), 



MY 



Our troubles come from trying to put 
The left-hand boot on the right-hand foot. 

t!7* t&* t0* 

LITTLE SISTER. 



WHO comes to meet me, running out 
To smile away all care and doubt, 
And takes me by the hand, and talks 
Her childish prattle as she walks, 
And makes me feel as if life's yoke 
Were really nothing but a joke? 
My little sister. 

Whose deepest griefs can pass away 
As quick as darkness yields to day, 
And leaves the little face as bright 
As sunbeams in the morning light? 
She leaves me nothing else to do 
But just to be light-hearted too, — 
My little sister. 

And when I'm tired, and feeling blue, 
And ugly, and disgusted, too, 
And when I even doubt if I 
Can claim a friend by any tie, 



I know, though others distant be, 
There's one small girl sticks up for me, — 
My little sister. 

And sometimes, when I may have slipped 
Some wrong have done, some good have 

skipped, 
When I some bitter pill must take 
In payment for my own mistake, 
When others slight, and others blame, 
Who comes to kiss me just the same? 
My little sister. 

I see her oft when I'm not there, 
And offer up a silent prayer; 
May grief and sorrow never chase 
The sunshine from that little face. 
May she ne'er grow to love me less — 
May Heaven keep, and guard, and bless 
My little sister. 






WHEN winter comes, the people say, 
"Oh, shut the door !" And when, 
As sometimes happens, I forget, 
They call me back again. 



A BOY'S WISH. 

And "Leave it open!" is the cry 
When I go in or out. 



It takes till summer-time to learn; 
And then things change about, 



I try to be a pleasant boy, 

And do just as I ought, 
But when things are so hard to 

I wish they might stay taught ! 



learn, 



*£& *£& *£& 



THEIR PREFERENCES. 



THREE maidens talked, as maidens will, 
Of what gives life its zest. 
Said one, a buxom country girl, 
"The mountain air is best." 

The second, clad in yachting suit 
All white beyond compare, 



Did thereupon exulting cry: 
"Give me the ocean air!" 

Then one, in swinging hammock posea, 
Half opened her eyes divine 

And languorously said : "I'll take 
The millionaire for mine." 



The selections in this department include a variety of subjects, all of which afford an op- 
portunity for a fine display of descriptive power on the part of the speaker. 

&* t2& t&* 

GOING HOME TO-DAY. 



MY business on the jury's done — the 
quibblin' all is through — 
I've watched the lawyers, right and left, 

and give my verdict true ; 
I stuck so long unto my chair I thought I 

would grow in; 
And if I do not know myself, they'll get me 

there again. 
But now the court's adjourned for good, 

and I have got my pay ; 
I'm loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm. 

goin' home to-day 

I've somehow felt uneasy like since first day 
I come down ; 

It's an awkward game to play the gentle- 
man in town; 

And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine, on Sun- 
day rightly sets, 

But when I wear the stuff a week, it some- 
how galls and frets, 

I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper- 
salt and gray — 

I'll have it on in half a jiff when I get home 
to-day. 

I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well 

as any one, 
As well as any woman could — to see that 

things were done ; 
For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't 

set her foot outdoors, 
She's very careful when I'm gone to 'tend 

to all the chores. 
But nothing prospers half so well when I 

go off to stav, 



And I will put things into shape when I get 
home to-day. 

The mornin' that I come away we had a 

little bout ; 
I coolly took my hat and left before the 

show was out, 
For what I said was naught whereat she 

ought to take offense ; 
And she was always quick at words and 

ready to commence; 
But then, she's first one to give up when 

she has had her say; 
And she will meet me with a kiss when I 

go home to-day. 

My little boy — I'll give 'em leave to match 
him, if they can — 

It's fun to see him strut about and try to 
be a man ! 

The gamest, cheeriest little chap you'd ever 
want to see! 

And then they laugh because I think the 
child resembles me. 

The little rogue ! he goes for me like rob- 
bers for their prey. 

He'll turn my pockets inside out when I get 
home to-day. 

My little girl — I can't contrive how it 

should happen thus — 
That God should pick that sweet bouquet 

and fling it down to us ! 
My wife, she says that han'some face will 

some day make a stir; 
And then I laugh because she thinks the 

child resembles her. 



379 



380 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



She'll meet me half way down the hill and 

kiss me any way ; 
And light my heart up with her smiles when 

I get home to-day ! 



If there's a heaven upon the earth a fellow 

knows it when 
He's been away from home a week, and 

then gets back again. 

t<5* «<5* *&* 



If there's a heaven above the earth there 

often, I'll be bound, / 
Some homesick fellow meets his folks and 

hugs 'em all around. 
But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it 

as it may. 
My heaven is just ahead of me — I'm goin' 

home to-day. 

— Will Carletan, 



MAKING SUCCESS. 



POETS may be born, but success is 
made ; therefore let me beg of you, in 
the outset of your career, to dismiss from 
your minds all ideas of succeeding by luck. 

There is no more common thought among 
young people than that foolish one that by 
and by something will turn up by which 
they will suddenly achieve fame or fortune. 
Luck is an ignis fatuns. You may follow it 
to ruin, but not to success. The great Na- 
poleon, who believed in his destiny, fol- 
lowed it until he saw his star go down in 
blackest night, when the Old Guard per- 
ished around him, and Waterloo was lost. 
A pound of pluck is worth a ton of luck. 

Young men talk of trusting to the spur 
of the occasion. That trust is vain. Oc- 
casion cannot make spurs. If you expect to 
wear spurs, you must win them. If you 
wish to use them, you must buckle them to 
your own heels before you go into the fight. 
Any success you may achieve is not worth 
having unless you fight for it. Whatever 
you win in life you must conquer by your 
own efforts, and then it is yours — a part of 
yourself. 

Again: in order to have any success in 
life, or any worthy success, you must re- 
solve to carry into your work a fulness of 
knowledge — not merely a sufficiency, but 
more than a sufficiency. Be fit for more 
than the thing you are now doing. Let 



every one know that you have a reserve in 
yourself; that you have more power than 
you are now using. If you are not too large 
for the place you occupy, you are too small 
for it. How full our country is of bright 
examples, not only of those who occupy 
some proud eminence in public life, but in 
every place you may find men going on with 
steady nerve, attracting the attention of 
their fellow-citizens, and carving out for 
themselves names and fortunes from small 
and humble beginnings and in the face of 
formidable obstacles. 

Let not poverty stand as an obstacle in 
your way. Poverty is uncomfortable, as I 
can testify; but nine times out of ten the 
best thing that can happen to a young man 
is to be tossed overboard, and compelled to 
sink or swim for himself. In all my ac- 
quaintance, I have never known one to be 
drowned who was worth the saving. This 
would not be wholly true in any country but 
one of political equality like ours. 

The reason is this : In- the aristocracies of 
the Old World, wealth and society are built 
up like the strata of rock which compose 
the crust of the earth. If a boy be born in 
the lowest stratum of life, it is almost im- 
possible for him to rise through this hard 
crust into the higher ranks ; but in this coun- 
try it is not so. The strata of our society 
resemble rather the ocean, where every 




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as 



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P«cS 

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DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



383 



drop, even the lowest, is free to mingle with 
all others, and may shine at last on the crest 
of the highest wave. This is the glory of 
our country, and you need not fear that 
there are any obstacles which will prove too 
great for any brave heart. 

In giving you being, God locked up in 
your nature certain forces and capabilities. 
What will you do with them ? Look at the 
mechanism of a clock. Take off the pen- 
dulum and ratchet, and the wheels go rat- 
tling down and all its force is expended in 
a moment ; but properly balanced and regu- 
lated, it will go on, letting out its force 
tick by tick, measuring hours and days, and 



doing faithfully the service for which it was 
designed. I implore you to cherish and 
guard and use well the forces that God has 
given to you. You may let them run down 
in a year, if you will. Take off the strong 
curb of discipline and morality, and you will 
be an old man before your twenties are 
passed. Preserve these forces. Do not 
burn them out with brandy, or waste them 
in idleness and crime. Do not destroy 
them. Do not use them unworthily. Save 
and protect them, that they may save for 
you fortune and fame. Honestly resolve 
to do this, and you will be an honor to your- 
self and to your country. 

— James A. Garfield. 



t&£ t2& *&* 



WILLIE'S SIGNAL FOR JESUS. 



AT twilight, in old Hospital St. Luke, 
The smiling eyes that watched grew 
wet with crying, 
And kind lips kissed away, with love's re- 
buke, 
The cruel anguish of the sick and dying. 

In the fourth ward a boy with broken 
bones 
Lay dreaming what the morrow should 
betide him, 
And sobbed and talked by turns, in falter- 
ing tones, 
With little Susie in the cot beside him. 

For he had borne the knife that day, and 
strain 
On his weak limbs of surgeon's cord and 
splinter, 
Till he had fainted with the weight of pain, 
Too great for one just through his sev- 
enth winter. 

And oh ! to wait the rest ! — 'twas worse, he 
said, 



To lie and tremble at the doctor's warn- 
ing. 
"I think 'twere better, Susie, to be dead, 

Than bear the hurt that's coming in the 
morning. 

"They say that every night the loving Lord 
Comes here for some of us, in watch or 
slumber, 
And I have prayed that when he walks this 
ward 
To-night, he'll take me, too, among the 
number. 

"I hope he'll know I want him, and I've 
planned, 
For fear I may be dreaming when he 
sees US; 
Above the bed-clothes — so — to prop my 
hand, 
And hold it there, to be a sign for Jesus." 

At midnight, in old Hospital St. Luke, 
While lamps burned low o'er lives yet 
lower burning, 



184 



And angel Sleep, aloof at Pain's rebuke, 
Tempted pale eyelids, going and return- 
ing— 

Who saw the Son of God, with countenance 
bland, 
In pity sweet His glory all concealing, 
Come at the beckoning of that lifted hand, 
And smile His answers to its mute ap- 
pealing ? 

The arm grew weak that held it. Faith's 

good will 
Stayed up the tiny sign of supplication 
Full long, and then it quivered — and grew 

still ; 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 

It pointed up, from sorrow to salvation. 



'Tis morn at last. The nurses come again 
And see that childlike token where it 
lingers, 

Erect and cold, above the counterpane, 
With resignation in its helpless fingers. 

From sights of fear and sounds of parting 
hope, 
And curses wrung from sufferers unfor- 
given, 
The soul of wounded Willie had gone up, 
Led by that small up-lifted hand to 
Heaven. 



£* C^* *2rl 



THE LITTLE GERMAN MOTHER. 



WE were at a railroad junction one 
night last week waiting a few 
hours for a train, in the waiting room, in 
the only rocking chair, trying to talk a 
brown-eyed boy to sleep, who talks a good 
deal when he wants to keep awake. Pres- 
ently a freight train arrived, and a beautiful 
little woman came in escorted by a great big 
German, and they talked in German, he 
giving her, evidently, lots of information 
about the route she was going, and telling 
her about her tickets and her baggage 
check, and occasionally patting her on the 
arm. 

At first our United States baby, who did 
not understand German, was tickled to hear 
them talk, and he "snickered" at the pecu- 
liar sound of the language that was being 
spoken. The great big man put his hand 
upon the old lady's cheek and said some- 
thing encouraging, and a great big tear 
came to her eye, and she looked as happy as 
a queen. The little brown eyes of the boy 
opened pretty big, and his face sobered 



down from its laugh, and he said: "Papa, 
is it his mother?" 

We knew it was, but how should a four- 
year-old sleepy baby, that couldn't under- 
stand German, tell that the lady was the big 
man's mother, and we asked him how he 
knew, and he said: "O, the big man was 
so kind to her." The big man bustled out, 
we gave the rocking chair to the little old 
mother, and presently the man came in with 
the baggageman, and to him he spoke Eng- 
lish. 

He said: "This is my mother, and she 
does not speak English. She is going to 
Iowa, and I have got to go back on the 
next train, but I want you to attend to her 
baggage, and see her on the right car, the 
rear car, with a good seat near the center, 
and tell the conductor she is my mother, 
and here's a dollar for you, and I will do 
as much for your mother some time." 

The baggageman grasped the dollar with 
one hand, grasped the big man's hand with 
the other, and looked at the little German 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



385 



with an expression that showed that he had 
a mother, too, and we almost knew the old 
lady was well treated. Then we put the 
sleeping mind-reader on a bench and went 
out on the platform and got acquainted 
with the big German, and he talked of 
horse trading, buying and selling, and 
everything that showed he was a live busi- 
ness man, ready for any speculation, from 
buying a yearling colt to a crop of hops or 
barley, and that his life was a very busy 
one and at times full of hard work, disap- 



pointment and hard' roads, but with all his 
hurry and excitement he was kind to his 
mother, and we loved him just a little, and 
when after a few minutes talk about busi- 
ness he said : "You must excuse me. I must 
go in the depot and see if my mother wants 
anything," we felt like taking his fat red 
hand and kissing it. O, the love of a 
mother is the same in any language, and 
it is good in all languages. The world 
would be poor without it. 

— R. J. Burdette. 



t5* 5<5* Ct/* 



THE SHIPWRECK. 



IN vain the cords and axes were pre- 
pared, 
For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; 
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid 

shade, 
And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. 
Uplifted on the surge, to Heaven she flies, 
Her shattered top half buried in the skies, 
Then headlong plunging thunders on the 

ground ; 
Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps 

resound ! 
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, 
And quivering with the wound in torment 

reels. 
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, 
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's 

blows. 
Again she plunges ! hark, a second shock 
Tears her strong bottom on the marble 

rock; 
Down on the vale of death, with dismal 

cries, 
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their 

eyes 
In wild despair; while yet another stroke, 
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak ; 
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 



The lurking demons of destruction dwell, 
At length asunder torn, her frame divides, 
And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides, 

O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art 
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart ; 
Like him the smooth and mournful verse to 

dress 
In all the pomp of exquisite distress 
Then too severely taught by cruel fate, 
To share in all the perils I relate, 
Then might I with unrivaled strains deplore 
The impervious horrors of a leeward shore ! 
As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast 

hung, 
Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung ; 
Some, struggling, on a broken crag were 

cast, 
And there by oozy tangles grappled fast. 
Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' 

rage, 
Unequal combat with their fate to wage ; 
Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego 
Their slippery hold, and sink to shades 

below. 
Some, from the main yard arm impetuous 

thrown 
On marble ridges, die without a groan. 
Three with Palemon on their skill depend, 



386 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And from the wreck on oars and rafts de- 
scend. 

Now on the mountain wave on high they 
ride, 

Then downward plunge beneath the involv- 
ing tide, 



Till one, who seems in agony to strive, 
The whirling breakers heave on shore alive ; 
The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, 
And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless 
crew! 

— William Falconer. 



t£& f£& fc5* 



THE LAST OF THE CHOIR. 



THERE was a gathering a short time 
ago at a neat house in an Ohio vil- 
lage of about a hundred people. The mis- 
tress of the house was in the parlor, and one 
by one they went to her side, but she did 
not speak or lift her hands. They were 
toil-worn hands, that for forty years had 
done daily work for the children, but she 
wore a new dress now, and the work was 
ended. 

Thirty-five years ago, when the church 
choir met for practice, she played the melo- 
deon, while they sang "Ware" and "Shir- 
land" and "Dundee." But the choir was 
gone, save two ladies who stood near her 
holding an old singing-book. There was 
a piano near, but it was closed. 

A minister, younger than the book they 
held, read how "Man is born unto trouble, 
as the sparks fly upward," and closing, 
looked at the two ladies. Many a time since 
the treble was fifteen and the alto thirteen 
they had sung for their silent friends. The 
treble breathed a low note, that only the 
alto heard; and then the listeners heard an 
old melody, with the words : 

"There is a land mine eye hath seen 
In visions of enraptured thought, 

So bright that all which spreads between 
Is with its radiant glory fraught." 

Out in the rooms beyond all v/as so still 
that every one could hear the voices as they 
sang the assurance that — 



"The wanderer there a home may find 
Within the paradise of God." 
The voice of prayer rose for comfort and 
endurance, a pleading voice in behalf of the 
household, and again he looked toward the 
two with the old book. They held it open, 
but they were not looking at it; they did 
not appear to think of it. They were re- 
viewing the years in the moment when they 
lifted up their voices in the words : 
"If through unruffled seas 
Toward heaven we calmly sail, 
With grateful hearts — " 
How strong their faith ! 

"— O God, to thee 
We'll own the favoring gale !" 

The audience, thinking only of the needs 
of their hearts, noticed not the useless book. 
"But should the surges rise," 

They sang faintly now, for the surges 
had been over them. The alto bent over a 
dying husband, and had buried him in a dis- 
tant city. Like a bolt from a clear sky came 
the death of her manly boy one evening 
when he had just left her side. 

Waves of trouble had come upon the 
treble; fair young children had been taken 
from her embrace — sons and daughters had 
been swept away. 

The voices faded away, but gained again 
with the line : 

"And rest delay to come," 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



387 



Rest! Their hearts were aching and 
tired. A young lady near the door feared 
they might break down; but her neighbor, 
who was old, could have told her the old 
choir were never known to break down. 
Ah, no ! The voices are full of hope again 
as they sing : 

"Blest be the sorrow, kind the storm, 
That drives us nearer home." 

Home ! The voices, blended by long prac- 
tice, lingered till they died in faint harmony 
at last on the word. 

- In the evening the two singers sat by the 
open fire. Again, as in childhood, they 
lived on the same street. 



"We did not need a book to-day," said 
the alto. "It would be impossible to forget 
the songs we learned when we were 
young." 

"Do you know," responded the treble, 
"that as we sing those pieces I hear the 
voices of those who used to be in the choir 
with us ? Sometimes I hear the tenor voice 
of the leader, then the voice of the bass who 
used to make us laugh so when we ought 
not; then the voice of the girl who sang 
with me, and then I hear all of them, and 
see their faces. They are all young. We 
only are old ; but we shall soon rejoin the 
choir." 






THE WRECK OF THE "HESPERUS." 



IT was the schooner "Hesperus" 
That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daugh- 
ter, 
To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm 

His pipe was in his mouth — 
And he watched how the veering flaw did 
blow 

The smoke now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor 
Who had sailed the Spanish main; 

"I pray thee put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

"Last night the moon had a golden ring 
And to-night no moon we see !" 

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 



Colder and louder blew the wind 

A gale from the northeast; 
The snow fell in the hissing brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted 
steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

"Come hither, come hither, my little daugh- 
ter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

"O father, I hear the church bells ring! 

O say, what may it be?" 
" 'Tis a fog bell on a rock bound coast," 

And he steer'd for the open sea. 



388 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



"O father, I hear the sound of guns ! 

O say, what may it be?" 
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea !" 

"O father, I see a gleaming light ! 

O say, what may it be !" 
But the father answer'd never a word — 

A frozen corpse was he! 

Lash'd to the helm all stiff and stark, 

With his face to the skies, 
The lantern gleam'd thro' the gleaming 
snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and 
prayed 
That saved she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who still'd the 
waves 
On the lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and 
drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, 

Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever, the fitful gusts between, 
A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks, and the hard sea sand. 



The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew, 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck, where the white and fleecy 
waves 

Look'd soft as carded wool ; 
But the cruel rocks they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice, 
With the masts, went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — 
"Ho ! ho !" the breakers roar'd. 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair 

Lash'd close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea 
weed 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow; 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe. 

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



l3* %6& 1G& 



THE CHRISTIAN GLADIATOR. 



STILLNESS reigned in the vast am- 
phitheater, and from the countless 
thousands that thronged the spacious in- 
closure not a breath was heard. Every 
tongue was mute with suspense, and every 
eye strained with anxiety toward the 
gloomy portal where the gladiator was mo- 
mentarily expected to enter. At length the 
trumpet sounded and they led him forth 



into the broad arena. There was no mark 
of fear upon his manly countenance, as with 
majestic step and fearless eye he entered. 
He stood there, like another Apollo, firm 
and unbending as the rigid oak. His fine 
proportioned form was matchless, and his 
turgid muscles spoke his giant strength. 

"I am here," he cried, as his proud lip 
curled in scorn, "to glut the savage eye of 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



389 



Rome's proud populace! Aye, like a dog 
you throw me to a beast; and what is my 
offense? Why, forsooth, I am a Christian. 
But know, ye cannot fright my soul, for it 
is based upon a foundation stronger than 
the adamantine rock. Know ye, whose 
hearts are harder than the flinty stone, my 
heart quakes not with fear; and here I 
aver, I would not change conditions with 
the blood-stained Nero, crowned though he 
be, not for the wealth of Rome. Blow ye 
your trumpet — I am ready !" 

The trumpet sounded, and a long, low 
growl was heard to proceed from the cage 
of a half-famished Numidian lion, situated 
at the farthest end of the arena. The growl 
deepened into a roar of tremendous volume, 
which shook the enormous edifice to its very 
center. At that moment the door was 
thrown open, and the huge monster of the 
forest sprang from his den with one mighty 
bound to the opposite side of the arena. His 
eyes blazed with the brilliancy of fire as he 
slowly drew his length along the sand and 
prepared to make a spring upon his formid- 
able antagonist. The gladiator's eye quailed 
not ; his lip paled not ; but he stood immov- 
able as a statue, waiting the approach of 
his wary foe. 

At length the lion crouched himself into 
an attitude for springing, and with the 
quickness of lightning leaped full at the 
throat of the gladiator. But he was pre- 
pared for him, and bounding lightly on one 
side, his falchion flashed for a moment over 
his head, and in the next it was deeply dyed 
in the purple blood of the monster. A roar 
of redoubled fury again resounded through 
the spacious amphitheater as the enraged 
animal, mad with the anguish from the 
wound he had just received, wheeled hastily 
round and sprang a second time at the Naz- 
arene. 



Again was the falchion of the cool and 
intrepid gladiator deeply planted in the 
breast of his terrible adversary ; but so sud- 
den had been the second attack, that it was 
impossible to avoid the full impetus of his 
bound, and he staggered and fell upon his 
knee. The monster's paw was upon his 
shoulder, and he felt its hot fiery breath 
upon his cheek, as it rushed through his 
wide distended nostrils. The Nazarene 
drew a short dagger from his girdle, and 
endeavored to regain his feet. But his foe, 
aware of his design, precipitated himself 
upon him threw him with violence to the 
ground. 

The excitement of the populace was now 
wrought up to a high pitch, and they waited 
the result with breathless suspense. A low 
growl of satisfaction now announced the 
noble animal's triumph, as he sprang 
fiercely upon his prostrate enemy. But it 
was of short duration; the dagger of the 
gladiator pierced his vitals, and together 
they rolled over and over, across the broad 
arena. Again the dagger drank deep of the 
monster's blood, and again a roar of an- 
guish reverberated through the stately edi- 
fice. 

The Nazarene, now watching his oppor- 
tunity, sprang with the velocity of thought 
from the terrific embrace of his enfeebled 
antagonist, and regaining his falchion, 
which had fallen to the ground in the strug- 
gle, he buried it deep in the heart of the 
infuriated beast. The noDie king of the for- 
est, faint from the loss of blood, concen- 
trated all his remaining strength in one 
mighty bound ; but it was too late ; the last 
blow had been driven home to the center of 
life, and his huge form fell with a mighty 
crash upon the arena, amid the thundering 
acclamations of the populace. 



390 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



IN THE AMEN CORNER. 



J r "PWAS a stylish congregation, that of 

I Theophrastus Brown, 
And its organ was the finest and the biggest 

in the town, 
And the chorus, all the papers favorably 

commented on it, 
For 'twas said each female member had a 

forty-dollar bonnet. 

Now in the "amen corner" of the church sat 

Brother Eyer, 
Who persisted every Sabbath-day in singing 

with the choir ; 
He was poor, but genteel-looking, and his 

heart as snow was white, 
And his old face beamed with sweetness 

when he sang with all his might. 

His voice was cracked and broken, age had 
touched his vocal chords, 

And nearly every Sunday he would mispro- 
nounce the words 

Of the hymns, and 'twas no wonder, he was 
old and nearly blind, 

And the choir rattling onward always left 
him far behind. 

The chorus stormed and blustered, Brother 
Eyer sang too slow, 

And then he used the tunes in vogue a hun- 
dred years ago ; 

At last the storm-cloud burst, and the 
church was told, in fine, 

That the brother must stop singing, or the 
choir would resign. 

Then the pastor called together in the lec- 
ture-room one day 

Seven influential members who subscribe 
more than they pay, 

And having asked God's guidance in a 
printed prayer or two, 

They put their heads together to determine 
what to do. 



They debated, thought, suggested till at last 

"dear Brother York," 
Who last winter made a million on a sudden 

rise in pork, 
Rose and moved that a committee wait at 

once on Brother Eyer, 
And proceed to rake him lively for "dis- 

turbin' of the choir." 

Said he: "In that 'ere organ I've invested 
quite a pile, 

And we'll sell it if we cannot worship in the 
latest style; 

Our Philadelphy tenor tells me 'tis the hard- 
est thing 

For to make God understand him when the 
brother tries to sing. 

"We've got the biggest organ, the best- 
dressed choir in town, 

We pay the steepest sal'ry to our pastor 
Brother Brown; 

But if we must humor ignorance because 
it's blind and old, — 

If the choir's to be pestered, I will seek an- 
other fold." 

Of course the motion carried, and one day 

a coach and four, 
With the latest style of driver, rattled up to 

Eyer's door; 
And the sleek, well-dressed committee, 

Brothers Sharkey, York, and Lamb, 
As they crossed the humble portal took good 

care to miss the jamb. 

They found the choir's great trouble sitting 

in his old arm-chair, 
And the summer's golden sunbeams lay 

upon his thin white hair ; 
He was singing "Rock of Ages" in a voice 

both cracked and low, 
But the angels understood him, 'twas all he 

cared to know. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



391 



Said York: "We're here, dear brother, 

with the vestry's approbation, 
To discuss a little matter that affects the 

congregation ;" 
"And the choir, too," said Sharkey, giving 

Brother York a nudge, 
"And the choir too!" he echoed with the 

graveness of a judge. 

"It was the understanding when we bar- 
gained for the chorus 

That it was to relieve us, that is, do the 
singing for us ; 

If we rupture the agreement, it is very plain, 
dear brother, 

It will leave our congregation and be gob- 
bled by another. 

"We don't want any singing except that 
what we've bought ! 

The latest tunes are all the rage; the old 
ones stand for naught ; 

And so we have decided — are you listen- 
ing Brother Eyer? — 

That you'll have to stop your singin', for it 
flurrytates the choir." 

The old man slowly raised his head, a sign 

that he did hear, 
And on his cheek the trio caught the glitter 

of a tear ; 
His feeble hands pushed back the locks 

white as the silky snow, 
As he answered the committee in a voice 

both sweet and low : 



"I've sung the psalms of David for nearly 

eighty years, 
They've been my staff and comfort and 

calmed life's many fears ; 
I'm sorry I disturb the choir, perhaps I'm 

doing wrong ; 
But when my heart is filled with praise, I 

can't keep back a song. 

"I wonder if beyond the tide that's breaking 
at my feet, 

In the far-off heavenly temple, where the 
Master I shall greet, — 

Yes, I wonder when I try to sing the songs 
of God up higher, 

If the angel band will church me for dis- 
turbing heaven's choir." 

A silence filled the little room ; the old man 

bowed his head; 
The carriage rattled on again, but Brother 

Eyer was dead! 
Yes, dead ! his hand had raised the veil the 

future hangs before us, 
And the Master dear had called him to the 

everlasting chorus. 

The choir missed him for awhile, but he 

was soon forgot, 
A few church-goers watched the door; the 

old man entered not. 
Far away, his voice no longer cracked, he 

sings his heart's desires, 
Where there are no church committees and 

no fashionable choirs. 



^* %&* &?* 

THE DYING SOLDIER. 



IT was the evening after a great battle. All 
day long the din of strife had echoed 
far, and thickly strewn lay the shattered 
forms of those so lately erect and exultant 
in the flush and strength of manhood. 
Among the many who bowed to the con- 



queror. Death, that night was a noble youth 
in the freshness of his early life. The 
strong limbs lay listless and the dark hair 
was matted with gore on the pale, broad 
forehead. His eyes were closed. As one 
who ministered to the sufferer bent over 



392 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



him, he, at first, thought him dead ; but the 
white lips moved, and slowly, in weak tones, 
he repeated : 

" Now I lay me down to sleep ; 
I pray the Lord my soul to keep ; 
If I should die before I wake, 
I pray the Lord my soul to take ; 
And this I ask for Jesus' sake." 

As he finished, he opened his eyes, and 
meeting the pitying gaze of a brother sol- 
dier, he exclaimed, "My mother taught me 
that when I was a little boy, and I have said 
it every night since I can remember. Be- 
fore the morning dawns I believe God will 
take my soul for Jesus' sake; but before I 
die I want to send a message to my mother." 

He was carried to a temporary hospital 
and a letter was written to his mother which 
he dictated. It was full of Christian faith 



and filial love. His end was calm and peace- 
ful. Just as the sun arose his spirit went 
home, his last articulate words being : 

" I pray the Lord my soul to take ; 
And this I ask for Jesus' sake." 

So died the noble volunteer. The prayer 
of childhood was the prayer of manhood. 
He learned it at his mother's knee in his far 
distant Northern home, and he whispered it, 
in dying, when his young life ebbed away 
on a Southern battle-field. It was his 
nightly petition in life, and the angel who 
bore his spirit home to heaven, bore the 
sweet prayer his soul loved so well. 

God bless the saintly words, alike loved 
and repeated by high and low, rich and poor, 
wise and ignorant, old and young, only sec- 
ond to our Lord's Prayer in beauty and 
simplicity. Happy the soul that can repeat 
it with the holy fervor of our dying soldier. 



X&& fc5* K6& 



MY FIRST RECITATION. 



1WAS seized with an ambition to appear 
in public once, 
I would study elocution and in public would 

recite ; 
So I bought a recitation and I read it night 

and day, 
Until without a single break, I every word 
could say. 

I bought a book on action, and studied ease 
and grace, 

And practiced well, before the glass, each 
tragical grimace, 

For I was of a somber turn and loved dra- 
matic rhyme, 

Of haunted towers, and lovers' sighs, and 
deeds of horrid crime. 

I joined a concert company, and had my 
name put down, 



And thought my first appearance was the 

talk of half the town ; 
The piece I had selected was a splendid one 

to "go," 
I had heard it oft recited by a fellow that I 

know. 

And when you hear the title, I am sure 
you'll say "that's good," 

'Twas the most dramatic poem ever writ- 
ten by Tom Hood ; 

I had seen the ladies clap their hands, and 
give a little scream — 

Now, can't you guess the title? It was 
"Eugene Aram's Dream !" 

The spacious hall was crowded with an 

audience most select, 
And some most distinguished visitors 

whom we did not expect — 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



393 



And one, I must confess it, the adored one 

of my heart, 
It was for her I tried to shine in this most 

tragic part. 

There was carpet on the platform, and 
banners trailed the ground, 

And a scented water fountain threw its. per- 
fumed spray around; 

And plants of tropic beauty in pots were 
blooming there, 

You scarcely could imagine a scene more 
wondrous fair. 

I looked at my adored one, with the glor- 
ious hazel eyes, 

And felt that her applause would be an all- 
sufficient prize. 

First a grand piano solo, then a chorus by 
the choir — 

I always had a notion that sweet music 
could inspire, 

And give a soldier courage; but the more 
I now reflect, 

I am quite sure that the music had an op- 
posite effect, 

For although my head was burning I was 
trembling like a leaf ; 

Then I thought the songs might soothe me, 
but the songs were all too brief. 

When I looked upon the programme, and 

had marked off every name, 
It seemed as if my time t' appear like a 

flash of lightning came. 
I tried to feel collected, and as if I didn't 

care, 
But I felt my face was burning right away 

into my hair. 

I stood just behind the platform, trying 

vainly to keep cool, 
And whispering softly to myself, "Be calm, 

don't be a fool !" 



When, smiling, our conductor round the 
corner popped his head, 

"Come, look sharp, Mr. Whiffim, the plat- 
form waits !" he said. 

Then I rushed upon the platform, nearly 

falling on my face, 
And stood before the audience, glaring 

wildly into space. 
When I saw the upturned faces, I'd have 

given the world to say, 
"Please don't stare at me so rudely! Oh, 

do look the other way !" 

Where were all my tragic actions, which 

their feelings must have stirred? 
And, O horror ! more important, where, oh 

where, was the first word ! 
Vainly stared I at the ceiling, vainly 

stared I at the floor ; 
Yes, the words were quite forgotten, I had 

known so well before. 

And I saw my own adored one hide her face 

behind her fan, 
And a stout old lady murmured, "Dear me, 

what can ail the man?" 
Then suddenly I remembered part of that 

most tragic rhyme, 
And I waved my arms and shouted, "In 

the prime of summer time." 

Why the audience laughed I know not, but 

they did and I got mad, 
It was not a comic poem, and to laugh was 

much too bad; 
Then I thought about my action, when 

"some moody turns he took," 
And I tramped along the platform till the 

very rafters shook. 

Then I reached the thrilling portion where 

the ladies ought to scream, 
Then I said, "My lad, remember, this is 

nothing but a dream." 



394 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



But to me it was a nightmare, awful, but, 

alas ! too true ; 
How I wished the creaking platform would 

but break and let me through ! 

Oh ! but for one drink of water, one to cool 

my burning tongue. 
Then I stooped to lift the body, then again 

I upward sprung; 
I had clasped a splendid rose-bush, on my 

shoulder held it tight, 
Then I plunged into the audience, scattering 

it wildly left and right. 

And I dropped the splendid rose-bush on 

a stout old lady's lap, 
And the branches got entangled with the 

ribbons of her cap. 
Then I pulled it, waved it wildly, like a 

palm-branch high in air, 
Wig and cap hung in the branches — the 

old lady's head was bare. 



Wildly then I flung it from me, flung it ere 

I turned and fled, 
And it struck the portly rector, struck him 

on his shiny head. 
Then the fierce mustachioed captain seized 

me with an angry shout, 
Lifted me by the coat collar, and, yes, really 

kicked me out. 

Angelina, my adored one, passes me and 

does not bow, 
Angelina goes out walking with another 

young man now. 
How I hate my wild ambition! I detest 

dramatic rhyme, 
And the art of elocution I would punish as 

a crime. 
For reciting may be pleasant if you don't 

aspire too high, 
But before you say it's easy, do as I did — 

go and try. 

—W. A. Eaton. 



t&& t£& t&™ 

WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE FARM. 



HERE, John! you drive the cows up 
while your mar brings out the pails ; 
But don't ye let me ketch yer ahangin' 

onter them cows' tails, 
An' chasin' them across that lot at sich a 

tarin' rate; 
An' John, when you cum out, be sure and 
shet that pastur gate. 

It's strange that boy will never larn to 
notice what I say, 

I'm 'fraid that he'll git to rulin' me, if 
things goes on this way ; 

But boys is boys, and will be boys, till ther 
grown up to men, 

An' John's about as good a lad as the aver- 
age of 'em. 

I'll tell ye, stranger, how it is : I feel a heap 
o' pride 



In that boy — he's our only one sence little 

Neddy died; 
Don't mind me, sir, I'm growin' old, my 

eyesight's gettin' dim ; 
But 't seems sumhow a kind o' mist cums 

long o' thoughts of him. 

Jes' set down on the doorstep, Squar, an' 

make yerself to hum ; 
While Johnny's bringin' up the cows I'll 

tell ye how it cum 
That all our boys ha' left us, 'ceptin' 

Johnny there, 
An' I reckon, stranger, countin' all, we've 

had about our share. 

Thar was our first boy, Benjamin, the old- 
est of them all, 

He was the smartest little chap, so clipper, 
peart and small ; 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



395 



He cum to us one sun-bright morn, as 

merry as a lark, 
It would ha' done your soul good, Squar, 

to a seen the little spark. 

An' thar was Tom, "a hansum boy," his 

mother alius said, 
He took to books, and larned so spry, we 

put the sprig ahead — 
His skoolin' cleaned the little pile we'd 

laid by in the chest, 
But I's bound to give the boy a chance to do 

his level best. 

Our third one's name was Samuel; he 

growed up here to hum, 
An' worked with me upon the farm till he 

was twenty-one. 
Fur Benjamin had larned a trade — He 

didn't take to work ; 
Tom, mixin' up in politics, got 'lected 

County Clerk. 

We ken all remember, stranger, the year o' 

sixty-one, 
When the spark that teched the powder off 

in that Confed'rat gun 
Flashed like a streak o' lightning up acrost 

from east to west, 
An' left a spot that burned like fire in every 

patriot's breast. 

An' I tell you what it was, Squar, my boys 

cum up to the scratch. 
They all had a share o' the old man's grit, 

with enough of their own to match. 
They showed their colors, an' set ther flint, 

their names went down on the roll, 
An' Benjamin, Thomas an' Sam was 

pledged to preserve the old flag whole. 

They all cum hum together at the last, 
rigged up in their soldier clothes ; 

It made my old heart thump, thump with 
pride, an' ther mother's spirits rose, 



Fur she'd been "down in the mouth" sum- 
what sense she'd heard what the boys 
had done, 

Fur it took all three, an' it's hard enough 
fur a mother to give up one. 

But ther warnt a drop of coward's blood 

in her veins, I ken tell you first, 
Fur she'd send the boys, an' the old man, 

too, ef the worst had cum to worst ; 
I shall never furgit the last night, Squar, 

when we all kneeled down to pray, 
How she give 'em, one by one, to God, in 

the hush of the twilight gray. 

An' when the morning broke so clear — 

not a cloud was in the sky — 
The boys cum in with sober looks to bid us 

their last good-by; 
I didn't spect she would stand it all, with 

her face so firm an' calm, 
But she didn't break nor give in a peg till 

she cum to kissin' Sam, 

An' then it all cum out at onct, like a 

■ storm from a thunder cloud, — 
She jest set down on the kitchen floor, 

broke out with a sob so loud 
Thet Sam give up, and the boys cum back, 

and they all got down by her there ; 
An' I'm thinkin' 'twould a made an angel 

cry to hev seen that partin', Squar ! 

I think she had a forewarnin', fur when 
they brought back poor Sam, 

She sot down by his coffin there, with her 
face so white and calm, 

Thet the neighbors who cum a pourin' in 
to see our soldier dead, 

Went out with a hush on ther tremblin' 
lips, an' the words in ther hearts un- 
said. 

Stranger, perhaps you heard of Sam, how 
he broke through thet Secesh line, 



396 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



An' planted the old flag high an' dry, where 
its dear old stars could shine ; 

An' after our soldiers won the day, an' a 
gatherin' up the dead, 

They found our boy with his brave heart 
still, and the flag above his head. 

An' Tom was shot at Gettysburg, in the 

thickest of the fray — 
They say thet he led his gallant boys like a 

hero thro' thet day ; 
But they brought him back with his clear 

voice hushed in the silent sleep of death, 
An' another grave grew grassy green 

'neath the kiss of the Summer's breath. 

An' Benjamin, he cum hum at last; but it 

made my old eyes ache 
To see him lay with thet patient look, when 

it seemed thet his heart must break 
With his pain and wounds, but he lingered 

on till the flowers died away, 



An' then he laid him down to rest, in the 
close of the autumn day. 

Will I sell the old farm, stranger, the house 

where my boys were born? 
Jes' look down through the orchard, Squar, 

beyond thet field of corn — 
Ken ye see them four white marble stuns 

gleam out through the orchard glade? 
Wall, all thet is left of our boys on earth 

rests unner them old trees' shade. 

But there cums John with the cows, ye see, 

an' it's 'bout my milkin' time ; 
If ye happen along this way agin, jes' drop 

in at any time. 
Oh, ye axed if I'd eny notion the old farm 

would ever be sold; 
Wall! may be, Squar, but I'll tell ye plain, 

'twill be when the old man's cold. 



^7-J ^J* <£* 



THE 

ALL day long the storm of battle through 
the startled valley swept ; 
All night long the stars in heaven o'er the 
slain sad vigils kept. 

o, 



DRUMM1 R BOY'S BURIAL. 

Death had touched him very gently, and he 

lay as if in sleep ; 
E'en his mother scarce had shuddered at 

that slumber calm and deep. 



the ghastly upturned faces gleaming 
whitely through the night, 
O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim 
sepulchral 



light. 



One by one the pale stars faded, and at 

length the morning broke 
Once again the night dropped round them — 

night so holy and so calm 
That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like 

the sound of prayer or psalm. 

On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart 

from all the rest, 
Lay a fair young boy, with small hands 

meekly folded on his breast. 



For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a 

radiance to the face, 
And the hand of cunning sculptor could 

have added naught of grace 

To the marble limbs so perfect in their pas- 
sionless repose, 

Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, 
unpitying foes. 

And the broken drum beside him all his 
life's short story told : 

How he did his duty bravely till the death- 
tide o'er him rolled. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



397 



Midnight came with ebon garments and a 

diadem of stars, 
While right upward in the zenith hung the 

fiery planet Mars. 

Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of 

voices whispering low, 
Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the 

brooklet's murmuring flow? 

Clinging closely to each other, striving ne'er 

to look around, 
As they passed with silent shudder the pale 

corses on the ground, 

Came two little maidens — sisters — with a 

light and hasty tread, 
And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, 

half of dread. 

And they did not pause nor falter till, with 
throbbing hearts, they stood 

Where the drummer-boy was lying in that 
partial solitude. 

They had brought some simple garments 
from their wardrobe's scanty store, 

And two heavy iron shovels in their slender 
hands they bore. 

Then they quickly knelt beside him, crush- 
ing back the pitying tears, 



For they had no time for weeping, nor for 
any girlish fears. 

And they robed the icy body, while no glow 

of maiden shame 
Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a 

flush of lambent flame. 

For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in 

that hour of sorest need, 
And they felt that death was holy, and it 

sanctified the deed. 

But they smiled and kissed each other when 
their new, strange task was o'er, 

And the form that lay before them its un- 
wonted garments wore. 

Then with slow and weary labor a small 

grave they hollowed out, 
And they lined it with the withered grass 

and leaves that lay about. 

But the day was slowly breaking ere their 

holy work was done, 
And in crimson pomp the morning heralded 

again the sun. 

Gently then those little maidens — they were 
children of our foes — 

Laid the body of our drummer boy to un- 
disturbed repose. 



t&* t&* £r* 



GRANDMA'S KNITTING STORY. 



THE supper is o'er, the hearth is swept, 
And in the wood-fire's glow 
The children cluster to hear a tale 
Of that time so long ago, 



When grandma's hair was golden brown, 
And the warm blood came and went 

O'er the face that could scarce have been 
sweeter then 
Than now in its rich content. 



The face is wrinkled and careworn now, 

And the golden hair is gray ; 
But the light that shone in the young girl's 
eyes 

Never has gone away. 

And her needles catch the firelight 

As in and out they go, 
With the clicking music that grandma 
loves, 

Shaping the stocking toe, 



398 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



And the waiting children love it, too, 
For they know the stocking song 

Brings many a tale to grandma's mind 
Which they shal 1 have ere long. 

But it brings no story of olden time 
To grandma's heart to-night, — 

Only a refrain, quaint and short, 
Is sung by the needles bright. 

"Life is a stocking," grandma says, 

"And yours is just begun ; 
But I am knitting the toe of mine, 

And my work is almost done. 

"With merry hearts we begin to knit, 
And the ribbing is almost play ; 

Some are gay-colored, and some are white, 
And some are ashen-gray. 



"But most are made of many hues, 
With many a stitch set wrong ; 

And many a row to be sadly ripped 
Ere the whole is fair and strong. 

"There are long, plain spaces, without a 
break, 

That in life are hard to bear ; 
And many a weary tear is dropped 

As we fashion the heel with care. 



"But the saddest, happiest time is that 
We count and yet would shun, 

When our Heavenly Father breaks 
thread, 
And says that our work is done." 



the 



The children came to say good-night, 
With tears in their bright young eyes, 

But in grandma's lap, with broken thread, 
The finished stocking lies. 



i5* <<?* «<£* 



GRANDMA'S WEDDING-DAY. 



WHEN we were merry children, eyes 
of blue and hair of gold, 
We listened to a story by a sweet-faced lady 

told ; 
Yes, in the twilight of her life, when she 

was old and gray, 
We loved to hear the story of Grandma's 
wedding-day. 

There was a lack of bridal gifts — no gold 

and silver fine, 
No jewels from across the sea, upon her 

brow to shine; 
A man in homespun clothes stood up and 

gave the bride away — 
For all was sweet simplicity on Grandma's 

wedding-day. 

There was no surpliced minister, no bell 
above them hung, 



They stood upon the forest sward, this 

couple, fair and young; 
And when the parson called them one and 

wished them years of bliss, 
The groom received his only gift — a soft 

and holy kiss. 

A cabin in the forest stood to welcome home 

the pair, 
And happy birds among the trees made 

music on the air ; 
She was the reigning backwoods belle — the 

bride so fair and gay — 
And that is why the birds were glad upon 

her wedding-day. 

Thus life began for Grandma, in the forest 

dim and old, 
And where she lived a city stands, with 

stateliness untold ; 




Photo by Byron, N. Y. 



THE UNHAPPY HOME. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



401 



She told us how the Indian came the set- 
tler brave to fight, 

And how she rocked the cradle to the wolf's 
long howl at night. 



The 



un- 



cradle was an oaken trough, 
trimmed with costly lace, 

But in it nestled, now and then, a bright, 
cherubic face; 

And Grandma was as happy then as though 
a mansion grand 

Above her rose like some we see through- 
out our lovely land. 

I cherish now a lock of hair — 'tis not of sil- 
ver gray, 



She clipped it in the sunlight fair, though 
years have passed away — 

It is a tress of Grandma's hair, as bright as 
when she stood, 

And blushing took her bridal vows within 
the pathless wood. 

On yonder hill, this golden morn, she takes 

her dreamless rest; 
The wrinkled hands, so often kissed, lie 

crossed upon her breast; 
And gently on her finger, e'er we laid her 

form away, 
We placed the simple ring she wore upon 

her wedding-day. 



fcT* fcT* «£■ 



THE DELINQUENT SUBSCRIBER. 



WORN and weary, seedy and sad, an 
editor sat him down 
'Mid work and rubbish, paper and dust, 

with many a wrinkled frown, 
He sighed when he thought of his paper 

bills, his rent, and board and wood, 
And groaned when the copy fiend yelled out, 
as he there in the doorway stood. 

"What do people fancy," he said, "an editor 
lives upon? 

Air and water, glory and debt, till his toil- 
some life is done? 

I'll stop their papers, every one, till their 
honest debts they pay, 

And mark their names off the mailing book 
for ever and ever aye. 

"Take this copy, double lead, and mark 

with a pencil blue, 
And send to all who are in arrears, from ten 

years down to two." 
And then to the copy-hungry boy he handed 

a penciled scrawl 
Of hieroglyphics, straggling, wild, all 

tangled, and lean and tall. 



When scarce a fortnight had dragged its 
length of tired-out hours away, 

There came to the heart of the editor a glad- 
some joy one day ; 

'Twas only a letter from Gordon's Mill, in a 
hand both weak and old, 

But out of it fell a treasured coin of solid 
beautiful gold ! 

The letter claimed his interest then, and so 

he slowly read 
The scrawled, but simple and honest words, 

and this is what they said : 
"Dear Editor: I read the lines you marked 

and sent to me, 
So I send this piece of gold and ask if you 

will agree 

"To send my paper right along, and forget 

the debt I owed, 
For I've took your paper for twenty year, 

and so far as e'er I know'd, 
I never owed no man a cent till about four 

years ago, 
When my poor wife died, and the crops 

was bad, and the fever laid me low. 



402 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS, 



"And times hain't never been the same to lit- 
tle Liz and me — 

For we are all that's left behind — and since 
my eyes can't see, 

She always reads the paper, and it's been 
our only cheer 

And brought us all the news and fun we've 
had for many a year. 

"I'm gettin' old and feeble, now, and down 

with the rheumatiz, 
And there's the paper left to me; just that 

and little Liz. 
We couldn't bear to lose it now, it's been 

with us so long, 
Till its very name is music, like an old time 

happy song. 



"This twenty-dollar piece of gold will pay 

for all I owe, 
And what is over and above, just keep, and 

let it go 
Toward paying for the paper till a brighter, 

better day ; 
And send to Liz, she'll need it then, when I 

am called away." 

Glad and thankful the editor was, as he 

knew that there was one 
Who loved and could appreciate the work 

that he had done. 
He felt that life was not in vain, and smiled 

through happy tears ; 
And then on the mailing book he wrote: 

"Paid up for twenty years." 

— Margaret A. Oldham. 



<&& C£/* c^* 



A TRAGEDY OF THE PLAINS. 



WHAT is that? Look closer and you 
will see that it is a gaunt, grim wolf, 
creeping out of the little grove of cotton- 
woods towards a buffalo calf gamboling 
about its mother. 

Raise your eyes a little more, and you 
will see that the prairie beyond is alive with 
buffalo. Count them! You might as well 
try to count the leaves on a giant maple! 
They are moving foot by foot as they crop 
the juicy grass, and living waves rise and 
fall as the herd slowly sweeps on. Afar 
out to the right and left, mere specks on 
the plain, are the flankers — brave old buf- 
faloes which catch a bite of grass and then 
sniff the air and scan the horizon for inti- 
mation of danger. They are the sentinels 
of the herd, and right well can they be 
trusted. 

The wolf creeps nearer! All the after- 
noon the herd has fed in peace, and as it 
now moves toward the distant river it is all 
unconscious that danger is near. Look you 



well and watch the wolf for you are going 
to see such a sight as not one man in ten 
thousand has ever beheld. 

Creep — crawl — skulk — now behind a 
knoll, now drawing himself over the grass, 
now raising his head above a thistle to 
mark the locality of his victim. It is a lone, 
shambling, skulking wolf, lame and spite- 
ful and treacherous. Wounded or ailing, he 
has been left alone to get on as best he may, 
and his green eyes light up with fiercer 
blaze as he draws nearer and nearer to his 
unconscious prey. 

There ! No, he is yet too far away. 
Creep, creep, creep ! Now he is twenty feet 
away — now fifteen — now ten. He hugs the 
earth, gathers his feet under him, then 
leaps through the air as if shot from a gun. 
He is rolling the calf over and over on the 
grass in three seconds after he springs. 
Now watch! 

A cry of pain from the calf — a furious 
bellow from the mother as she wheels and 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



40< 



charges the wolf — a startled movement 
from a dozen of the nearest animals, 
and a rush begins. The one wolf is magni- 
fied into a hundred, the hundred into a thou- 
sand. Short, sharp bellows, snorts of alarm, 
a rush, and in fifty seconds after the wolf 
has wet his fangs with blood that living 
mass is in motion to get away from an un- 
known terror. The waves rise higher and 
higher as the confusion spreads. One in- 
stant it seems as if ten thousand solid acres 
of prairie were moving bodily away ; again 
waves rise and fall as the cowards behind 
rush upon those in front who wait to sniff 
the air and learn the danger. In one min- 
ute the alarm runs down the herd to the 
leaders — further than the eye can see, and 
the entire herd if off at a mad gallop, heads 
down, eyes rolling, and no thought but that 
of escape. If Lake Erie were to dash itself 
against a wall the shock would be no greater 
than the awful crash with which this mass 
of rattling hoofs, sharp horns and hairy 
bodies would meet it. The clatter of hoofs 
and rattle of horns would drown the noise 
of a brigade of cavalry dashing over a 
stone-paved road. 

Ride out on their trail. Here where the 
stampede began the ground is torn and 
furrowed as if a thousand cannon had been 
firing solid shot at targets. Here and there 
are calves which have been gored or 
crushed, here and there older animals with 
broken legs and disabling wounds. Here, 
where the herd was fairly off, you might 
as well hunt for a gold dollar as a blade of 
grass. You look for three miles as you look 
across it. It is a trail of dirt and dust and 
ruts and furrows, where half an hour ago 
was a carpet of green grass and smiling 
flowers. The most dreadful cyclone known 
to man could not have left more horrible 
scars behind. 

Miles away, on the bank of a winding, 



growling river, are three white-topped emi- 
grant wagons. A camp-fire blazes up to 
boil the kettles; men, women and children 
stand about, peering over the setting sun 
at the distant mountains and glad that their 
journey is almost done. Butterflies come 
and go on lazy wing, the crickets chirp 
cheerily in the grass, and the eagles sailing 
in the blue evening air have no warning to 
give. 

Hark! Is that thunder? 

Men and women turn in their tracks as 
they look in vain for a cloud in the sky. 
That rumble comes again as they look into 
each other's faces. It grows louder as 
women turn pale and men reach for their 
trusty rifles. The ground trembles, and 
afar off comes a din which strikes terror to 
the heart. "Indians !" they whisper. No ! 
A thousand times better for them if the 
savage Pawnee dared ride down where 
those long-barreled rifles could speak in 
defence of a peaceful camp. 

"A stampede of buffaloes !" gasps one of 
the men as he catches sight of the advance 
guard under the awful cloud of dust. Rifles 
are held ready for a shot, and the children 
climb up on*the heavy wagon wheels to see 
the strange procession gallop past. 

Here they come ! Crack ! crack ! crack ! 
from three rifles, and a shout as each bullet 
tells. Next instant a shaggy head, followed 
by a dust-covered body, rushes through the 
camp. Then another and another. The 
men shout and wave their hands; the 
women and children turn paler yet. 

The roar and din shut out every other 
sound, and the wagons jar and tremble with 
the concussion. Now another shaggy head 
— another — half a dozen — a score — a hun- 
dred — a great living wave which sweeps 
along with the power of a tornado, followed 
by others more fierce and strong, and the 
camp is blotted off the face of the earth as 



404 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



completely as by the power of Heaven. 
Nothing to be seen, no shout to be heard. 
Wave followed wave across the spot, over 
the bank, into the stream and across, and 
when the last of the herd has passed, the 



keenest hunter can find on that spot nothing 
of wood or iron or cloth or bone or flesh 
to prove that a dozen men, women and 
children were there wiped out of ex- 
istence. 






THE MIGHT OF LOVE. 



THERE is work, good man, for you to- 
day!" 
So the wife of Jamie cried, 
"For a ship at Garl'ston, on Solway, 
Is beached, and her coal's to be got away 
At the ebbing time of tide." 

"And, lassie, would you have me start, 

And make for Solway sands? 
You know that I, for my poor part, 
To help me, have nor horse nor cart — 

I have only just my hands!" 

"Bui, Jamie, be not, till ye try, 

Of honest chances baulked; 
For, mind ye, man, I'll prophesy 
That while the old ship's high and dry 

Her master'll have her caulked." 

« 
And far and near the men were pressed, 

As the wife saw in her dreams. 
"Aye," Jamie said, "she knew the best," 
As he went under with the rest 

To caulk the open seams. 

And while the outward-flowing tide 

Moaned like a dirge of woe, 
The ship's mate from the beach-belt cried: 
"Her hull is heeling toward the side 

Where the men are at work below !" 

And the cartmen, wild and open-eyed, 

Made for the Solway sands — 
Men heaving men like coals aside, 
For now it was the master cried : 
"Run for your lives, all hands !" 



Like dead leaves in the sudden swell 

Of the storm, upon that shout, 
Brown hands went fluttering up and fell, 
As, grazed by the sinking planks, pell-mell 
The men came hurtling out ! 

Thank God, thank God, the peril's past ! 

"No ! no !" with blanching lip, 
The master cries. "One man, the last, 
Is caught, drawn in, and grappled fast 

Betwixt the sands and the ship !" 

"Back, back, all hands ! Get what you can — 

Or pick, or oar, or stave." 
This way and that they breathless ran, 
And came and fell to, every man, 

To dig him out of his grave ! 

"Too slow ! too slow ! the weight will kill ! 

Up, make your hawsers fast !" 
Then every man took hold with a will — 
A long pull and a strong pull — still 

With never a stir o' the mast! 

"Out with the cargo !" Then they go 

At it with might and main. 
"Back to the sands ! too slow, too slow ! 
He's dying, dying! yet, heave, ho! 

Heave ho! there, once again!" 

And now on the beach at Garl'ston stood 

A woman whose pale brow wore 
Its love like a queenly crown ; and the blood 
Ran curdled and cold as she watched the 
flood 
That was racing in to the shore. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



405 



On, on it trampled, stride by stride. 

It was death to stand and wait; 
And all that were free threw picks aside, 
And came up dripping out o' th' tide, 

And left the doomed to his fate. 

But lo ! the great sea trembling stands ; 

Then, crawling under the ship, 
As if for the sake of the two white hands 



Reaching over the wild, wet sands, 
Slackened that terrible grip. 

"Come to me, Jamie ! God grants the way," 

She cries, "for lovers to meet." 
And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they say, 
And, wrapping him tenderly round with 
spray, 
Laid him dead at her feet. 






A TENEMENT HOUSE GUEST 



IN a tenement house, on west side of New 
York City, lives Mrs. M'Ginnis, and she 
earns her bread over a wash-tub. 

She had just put her washing into the 
boiler, and sat down to take an "aisy breath 
or two," when she saw a curious appari- 
tion in her doorway. It was the figure of 
an old man, but so bent, so thin, so tattered, 
so shaggy and unshorn, that, for an instant, 
Mrs. M'Ginnis thought she confronted 
something that was not of flesh and blood. 

"And is it anything ye wahnt of me, me 
gude man ?" 

"Is she here?" 

"Who, me gude man? Who do you 
mane ?" 

"Me little girl," he answered ; and the dim 
old eyes began to brighten. 

Then Mrs. M'Ginnis' eyes became ob- 
scured. She thought her guest's mind was 
wandering, and was touched. She was 
frightened, too, but she spread her humble 
board with the best she had, and urged him 
to eat. Then she flew to summon her im- 
mediate and intimate neighbors. This was 
an event that called for outside counsel and 
support. 

Billy Blair, his mother's eldest, twenty 
years old, and as big as any giant in the 
"Pilgrim's Progress," was at home enjoy- 
ing a holiday, because of a death in the firm 
that employed him. Being the only repre- 



sentative of male wisdom present, he as- 
sumed control of the meeting without op- 
position. 

The old man, refreshed by food and rest, 
rocked softly and began to talk. 

"I wahnt to find me little girl." 

"Who is yer little girl?" asked Billy. 
"What's her name?" 

"Her name ? It's Nora Grady, of course ; 
and me own name, it's Thomas." 

"When did yer little girl lave ye?" 

"Whin did she lave me?" echoed the old 
man. "Sure it's bin menny a long year ; but 
I've got the Aggers here, and a mark in the 
paper for ivery year she's been gone," and 
he fished from some invisible pocket among 
his tatters a folded paper, as worn and soiled 
as himself. 

"It were in the year 1850 she sailed for 
Ameriky," he said, looking intently at the 
figures on the paper, "and she's been gone 
all that time, has me little girl." 

"And how old is she ?" asked Billy. 

"Sixteen, — me little girl's sixteen, and she 
had the purtiest face and curliest hair of 
any lass in the country." 

"But she's grown older, ye know, poor 
mon ; she's an old woman now, surely," said 
Mrs. Blair. 

"No; she's me little girl," he answered, 
with pitiful assurance in his voice. 

"Does she expect ye?" asked Mrs. Nolan. 



406 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



"Naw," said the old man, with a childish 
twinkle in his faded eyes, "naw ; it's a sur- 
prise I'll give her. She'll be glad to see me ; 
she'll be plazed at me bein' here, indade." 

" When did ye last hear from her ?" asked 
Mrs. M'Ginnis. 

"In Siptimber, and here's the letter she 
sent, wid her own name at the bottom." 

Billy, the superior brain of the council, 
took the letter and pored intently over its 
grimy surface, at last reaching the name at 
the end. There it was, to be sure, as plain 

as a stone wall, "Nora Grady, No. 167 

Street, Jersey City." 

"But what will Nora do wid ye, me mon, 
if she hez nary a home of her own ?" asked 
far-seeing Mrs. Blair. 

"She writ me long ago that she had 
money in the bank ; she'll be glad to see me, 
I know," he answered, a look of trust in his 
faded eyes. 

His new friends soon set about improv- 
ing his personal appearance. Billy made 
some donations from his own limited ward- 
robe, and the others supplied the remaining 
deficiencies from stores as scanty. A bath 
was administered, with Billy as chief opera- 
tor and medical adviser, and a barber's ap- 
prentice in the basement cheerfully added 
his skill to complete the transformation. 

These experiences exhausted the old man. 
When he had been made over, externally, 
he was too weak to sit up, and was trans- 
ferred to Billy's bed, a decent but not dainty 
couch. 

Then Mrs. M'Ginnis went to Jersey City 
in search of the "little girl," taking with her 
the precious letter as evidence of the truth 
of her story. How strange it was that these 
men and women, who in the morning had 
been unaware of his existence, were now 
more interested in his fortunes than in any- 
thing else in the world. 

They tiptoed in and out of Mrs. Blair's 



room, not wishing to disturb the sick guest. 
Yet the old man was not asleep. His dim 
eyes were fixed on the dull wall of Billy's 
little room, though, in reality, they were 
looking backward through the long years, 
groping in the mists of memory for faces 
and figures that had vanished from the 
earth. Mrs. Blair came out with a cup in 
her hand and tears in her eyes. 

"I'm afraid he's sinking," she whispered 
to the hushed group. "He hez no strength 
at all." 

The hours went by slowly, very slowly. 
Nine, ten, at last eleven o'clock struck, and 
still Mrs. M'Ginnis did not come, nor did 
the "little girl." Suddenly every pulse 
quickened, every eye dilated. They were 
coming; the watchers heard the sound of 
two pairs of feet on the stairs, and the 
swish of women's garments. 

The door opened, and Mrs. M'Ginnis en- 
tered. Behind her came — not the "little 
girl" who had so long held a place in the 
old man's memory; not the curly-headed, 
girlish Nora, but an old woman, bent and 
broken by toil, with furrowed face and 
rough, work-worn hands. 

They had all known that she must look 
like this. They had talked it over and pre- 
pared themselves for it, yet the reality was 
a shock to them. The weeping women 
took her in their arms, and the men 
shook her hand with a hearty "God bless 

ye." 

"Here's Nora, here's yer daughter," said 
Mrs. M'Ginnis to the old man, as she led 
Nora to the bedside. 

He made no reply. She touched his hand 
and bent over him, speaking softly : "Here's 
your 'little girl.' " 

His eyes lighted up with joy as they 
wandered round the bleak room, passing by 
Nora and looking out through the open 
door. "Where? Where? I don't see me 



DESCRIPTIVE BECITATIONS. 



40? 



little girl. Where is she?" he gasped, try- 
ing to lift his head from the pillow. 

"Feyther, feyther, don't you know me? 
I'm Nora, feyther; don't you know me?" 
said the woman, over whose seamed face 
the tears were falling like rain. 

"Nora's a little girl," he answered, 
trembling, moving his shrunken head as 
though trying to disperse the mists of mem- 
ory. "She has bright eyes, and curly hair 
as black as night." 

They raised his head that he might see 
Nora better. 

"Feyther, feyther," she cried, stroking 
his thin hands, "Feyther, I'm Nora, I'm 
your little girl." 

Something in her voice scattered the mists 
that obscured him mind — some tone be- 



longing to the little girl was still heard in 
the voice of the woman, and his ear caught 
it. The faded eyes became very bright, and 
he reached out both hands with the glad 
cry, — "Me little girl, me Nora!" and sud- 
denly let them fall. 

Bending close to his white face, they saw 
that he was no longer with them. He had 
gone into a new country, the beautiful new 
country of our dreams, lighted thither by 
the joy of sudden recognition. Love knows 
neither age nor time. Others saw Nora as 
an old woman ; but by the light of love, and 
that other light which cometh from afar, he 
saw a bright-faced little girl, and while his 
glad eyes dwelt hungrily on hers, he de- 
parted to the wonderful, new "Ameriky," 
where the sun shall always shine. 



<<?• t&& t&* 



A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 



GIRT round with rugged mountains 
the fair Lake Constance lies ; 
In her blue heart reflected, shine back the 

starry skies; 
And watching each white cloudlet float si- 
lently and slow, 
You think a piece of heaven lies on our 
earth below! 

Midnight is there ; and silence enthroned in 
heaven, looks down 

Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleep- 
ing town; 

For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the 
Tyrol shore, 

Has stood above Lake Constance a thou- 
sand years and more. 

Her battlements and towers, upon their 

rocky steep, 
Have cast their trembling shadows of ages 

on the deep; 



Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred 

legend know, 
Of how the town was saved one night, 

three hundred years ago. 

Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol 
maid had fled, 

To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for 

daily bread; 
- And every year that fleeted so silently and 
fast, 

Seemed to bear farther from her the mem- 
ory of the past. 

*She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked 

for rest or change ; 
Her friends seemed no more new ones, their 

speech seemed no more strange ; 
And when she led her cattle to pasture every 

day, 
She ceased to look and wonder on which 

side Bregenz lay. 



408 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



She spoke no more of Bregenz, with long- 
ing and with tears ; 

Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep 
mist of years ; 

She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war 
or strife; 

Each day she rose contented, to the calm 
toils of life. 

Yet, when her master's children would 

clustering round her stand, 
She sang them the old ballads of her own 

native land; 
And when at morn and evening she knelt 

before God's throne, 
The accents of her childhood rose to her 

lips alone. 

And so she dwelt; the valley more peace- 
ful year by year ; 

When suddenly strange portents of some 
great deed seemed near. 

The golden corn was bending upon its 
fragile stalk, 

While farmers, heedless of their fields, 
paced up and down in talk. 

The men seemed stern and altered, with 

looks cast on the ground ; 
With anxious faces, one by one, the women 

gathered round; 
All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was 

put away; 
The very children seemed afraid to go alone 

to play. 

One day, out in the meadow with strangers 

from the town, 
Some secret plan discussing, the men 

walked up and down, 
Yet now and then seemed watching a 

strange uncertain gleam, 
That looked like lances 'mid the trees that 

stood below the stream. 



At eye they all assembled, all care and 

doubt were fled ; 
With jovial laugh they feasted, the board 

was nobly spread. 
The elder of the village rose up, his glass in 

hand, 
And cried, "We drink the downfall of an 

accursed land! 

"The night is growing darker, ere one more 

day is flown, 
Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz 

shall be our own !" 
The women shrank in terror (yet pride, too, 

had her part), 
But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within 

her heart. 

Before her, stood fair Bregenz, once more 
her towers arose; 

What were the friends beside her? Only 
her country's foes ! 

The faces of her kinsfolk, the day of child- 
hood flown, 

The echoes of her mountains reclaimed 
her as their own ! 

Nothing she heard around her (though 

shouts rang out again) ; 
Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the 

pasture and the plain; 
Before her eyes one vision, and in her 

heart one cry, 
That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, and 

then if need be, die !" 

With trembling haste, and breathless, with 

noiseless step she sped ; 
Horses and weary cattle were standing in 

the shed; 
She loosed the strong white charger, that 

fed from out her hand, 
She mounted and she turned his head 

toward her native land. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



409 



Out — out into the darkness — faster, and 

still more fast; 
The smooth grass flies behind her, the 

chestnut wood is passed; 
She looks up; clouds are heavy: Why is 

her steed so slow? — 
Scarcely the wind beside them, can pass 

them as they go. 

"Faster !" she cries. "Oh, faster !" Eleven 

the church-bells chime; 
"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and 

bring me there in time I" 
But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing 

of the kine, 
Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing 

of the Rhine. 

Shall not the roaring waters their headlong 

gallop check? 
The steed draws back in terror, she leans 

above his neck 
To watch the flowing darkness, the bank 

is high and steep, 
One pause — he staggers forward, and 

plunges in the deep. 

She strives to pierce the darkness, and 

looser throws the rein ; 
Her steed must breast the waters that dash 

above his mane. 
How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles 

through the foam, 
And see — in the far distance, shine out the 

lights of home ! 



Up the steep bank he bears her, and now 

they rush again 
Towards the heights of Bregenz, that 

tower above the plain. 
They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the 

midnight rings, 
And out come serf and soldier to meet the 

news she brings. 

Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight her battle- 
ments are manned; 

Defiance greets the army that marches on 
the land. 

And if to deeds heroic should endless fame 
be paid, 

Bregenz does well to honor the noble 
Tyrol maid. 

Three hundred years are vanished, and yet 
upon the hill 

An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor 
still. 

And there, when Bregenz women sit spin- 
ning in the shade, 

They see the quaint old carving, the 
charger and the maid. 

And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gate- 
way, street, and tower, 

The warder paces all night long, and calls 
each passing hour; 

"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud and 
then (O crown of fame!) 

When midnight pauses in the skies he calls 
the maiden's name. 



THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 



THE gret big church wuz crowded full 
uv broadcloth an' uv silk, 
An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our 

ol' brindle's milk; 
Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys an' 

stovepipe hats were there, 
An' doods 'ith thouserloons so tight they 
couldn't kneel down in prayer. 



The elder in his poolpit high, said, as he 

slowly riz: 
"Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith 

roomatiz, 
An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother 

Moore aint here, 
Will some'un in the congregation be so 

kind's to volunteer?" 



410 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp, of 
low-toned, rowdy style, 

Give an interductory hiccup, an' then stag- 
gered up the aisle. 

Then through thet holy atmosphere there 
crep' a sense er sin, 

An' through thet air of sanctity the odor uv 
old gin. 

Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth 

all set on edge ; 
"This man purfanes the house er God ! 

W'y, this is sacrilege !" 
The tramp didn't hear a word he said, but 

slouched 'ith stumblin' feet, 
An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, 

an' gained the organ seat. 

He then went pawin' through the keys, an' 

soon there rose a strain 
Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart an' 

'lectrify the brain ; 
An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith 

hands an' head an' knees, 
He slam-dashed his hull body down kerflop 

upon the keys. 

The organ roared, the music flood went 

sweepin' high an' dry; 
It swelled into the rafters an' bulged out 

into the sky, 
The ol' church shook an' staggered an' 

seemed to reel an' sway, 
An' the elder shouted "Glory !" and I yelled 

out "Hooray !" 



An' then he tried a tender strain thet melted 

in our ears, 
Thet brought up blessed memories and 

drenched 'em down 'ith tears ; 
An' we dreamed uv ol' time kitchens 'ith 

Tabby on the mat, 
Uv home an' luv an' baby-days an' mother 

an' all that! 

An' then he struck a streak uv hope — a song 

from souls forgiven — 
Thet burst from prison-bars uv sin an' 

stormed the gates uv heaven; 
The morning stars they sung together, — no 

soul wuz left alone,— 
We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God wuz 

on his throne! 

An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness 

come again, 
An' long, black crape hung on the doors uv 

all the homes uv men ; 
No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs 

of glad delight, 
An' then — the tramp, he staggered down an' 

reeled into the night! 

But we knew he'd tol' his story, though he 

never spoke a word. 
An' it was the saddest story thet our ears 

had ever heard; 
He hed tol' his own life history, an' no eye 

was dry thet day, 
Wen the elder rose an' simply said: "My 

brethren, let us pray." 






A NEWSBOY IN CHURCH. 



WELL, ye see, I'd sold my papers, 
Every blooming blessed one, 
And was strollin' round the corner, 

Just a prospectin' for fun. 
I was loafin' by the railin' 

Of that church you see right there, 



With its crosses and its towers, 
Kind o' settin' off the square. 

And I got a sort o' lonesome, 

For the gang — they weren't round, 

When I heard a noise of music, 

Seemed like comin' from the ground. 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



411 



It was nothin' but some singin', 

But it sounded mighty fine ; 
Course, I ain't no judge o' them things, 

An' it's no affair o' mine. 
Then it seemed to kind o' weaken 

And I didn't hear it plain, 
Till the band struck up a-whoopin', 

And I heard it all again. 
Well, there seemed to be a show there, 

That I thought I'd like to see, 
An' there was so many goin', 

I jest says : 'Til bet it's free." 
So I looks around the corner 

An' I makes a careful search, 
For I knew the kids 'ud "guy" me, 

If they heard I'd been to church. 
Well, there weren't a soul a-lookin' 

So I up and walks right in, 
An' I sat down in a corner 

While they finished up their hymn. 

Well, sir, blow me, if I ever 

Was so taken all aback — 
There was marching up the aisle a 

Gang of kids, in white and black. 
They were singin' just like angels, 

And they looked so slick and nice 
That I wondered where they got 'em ; 

Were they always kept on ice. 
And they wore a long, black cloak, sir, 

Comin' to their very feet, 
And an overall of white stuff, 

Just like what is in a sheet. 
Then some men came up behind them 

Singin' loudly, as they came, 
But, although the kids was weaker, 

They all got there, just the same. 
Then, behind the whole procession, 

Came two men, 'most all in white, 
And they wore some fancy biz'ness, 

An' they looked just out o' sight. 
But they didn't do no singin', 

Jest kept still, and looked ahead. 



An' sez I, I'll bet they're runnin' 

All the show — that's what I said. 
Then they all got up in front there, 

And the music sounded grand, 
But, to save my neck, I couldn't 

Get a sight, sir, of the band. 
I could hear it as distinctly, 

So I guessed it must be near, 
But I saw no men, nor nothin', 

An' I thought it very queer. 

Well, a man was standin' near me, 

An' I touched him with my hand, 
Then he looked aroun' and saw me, 

An' sez I, "Say, where's the band?" 
An' he looked at me a-grinnin', 

Just as tho' I'd make a joke, — 
That 'ere look he gave me made me 

Kind o' sorry that I'd spoke. 
Then he says : "Why, that's the organ, 

All those pipes you see up there, 
One man plays it with his fingers, 

And another pumps the air." 
Here the music stopped so sudden 

That I 'most forgot myself ; 
And I heard some man a-talkin' 

From a book laid on a shelf. 
Then they all got up and read some, 

First the man, and then the crowd, 
After that they knelt down softly, 

And I see their heads were bowed, 
So I bows my head down, too, sir, 

And I listens t' every word ; 
But I didn't understand them 

Every time they said, "Good Lord." 
Well, they kept that up some longer, 

Till a plate came down the aisle, 
And some people dropped in money 

An' some others dropped a smile. 
(I suppose they'd come on passes 

For they were allowed to stay.) 
So I gave 'em my four pennies, 

That was all I had that day. 



412 



DESCRIPTIVE RECITATIONS. 



Then a kid got up in front there 

With a paper in his hand — 
All the rest was sittin' quiet — 

And the man tuned up the band, 
Then that kid began a-singin' 

Till I thought my heart 'ud break, 
For my throat was full o' chokin' 

And my hands began to shake. 
Well, I never seen no angels, 

And their songs I've never heard, 
But I'll bet that there's no angel 

Beats that kid — for he's a bird. 
He was lookin' like a picture, 

With his robes of white and black, 
And I felt my tears a-comin', 

For I couldn't keep 'em back, 
And I wondered if he always 

Was as good as he looked there, 
Singin' all about the angels, 

"Angels ever bright and fair." 
Well, thinks I, I guess it's easy 

To be good and sing so sweet, 
But, you know, it's kind o' different 

Sellin' papers on the street. 



When the kid got through his singin' 

I got up and made a sneak, 
And I got outside the church there, 

And, indeed, I couldn't speak. 
Then I ran across the gang, sir, 

They were hangin' round for me. 
But I somehow didn't want them, 

And just why, I couldn't see. 
So I said I couldn't join 'em 

'Cos I had another date, 
And I went on walkin' homeward, 

Like a kid without a mate. 
And I sneaked in just as quiet 

And I lay down on my bed, 
Till I slept and got a-dreamm' 

About angels overhead. 
And they wore such shiny garments, 

And they sang so sweet and fine, 
And the one right in the middle 

Was that singin' kid of mine. 
Now, I kind o' want to know, sir 

(So I'm asking you, ye see), 
If them kids can all be angels, 

Is there any show for me? 





Encores 








This department is supplementary to all the other departments in this work, and contains 

pieces suitable for recitation when a speaker has been 

recalled by the audience. 

t0* <&* 10* 

MARK TWAIN AS A FARMER. 



I HAVE been introduced to you as an 
experienced agriculturist. I love the 
farm. Adam loved the farm. Noah loved 
his vineyards. Horace loved the farm, as 
is shown by that great book, "What I Know 
About Farming." Washington, Webster 
and Beecher were allured by the attractions 
of agriculture. Some one said to Beecher: 
"Keep your cows out of my shrubbery." 
"Keep your shrubbery out of my cows," re- 
plied Beecher. "It spoils the milk." Hogs 
are hard animals to drive over a bridge. I 
once saw a man carried several miles on 
the back of a hog that turned back in op- 
position to the solicitations of the driver on 
approaching a bridge. I will tell you of a 
safe way to get hogs over a bridge. Kill 
them and draw them over in a wagon. Hogs 
are fond of spring lambs and spring chick- 
ens. Hogs will eat their own offspring if 
no lambs or chickens are offered in the 
market. 

When a boy I was solicited to escort a 
pig to a neighbor's farm. A strong rope 
tied to the pig's leg was placed in my hand ; 
I did not know before the speed and 
strength of a pig. But they do not run the 
way you want them to run. A pig can draw 
a canal-boat with the tow-line tied to his 
hind leg, but I would not insure the canal- 
boat. Hogs are cleanly, orderly, silent and 
not bent on mischief — when cut up and 
salted and in a tight barrel, with a heavy 
weight on the lid. This is all I know about 
hogs. 



I love cows. What is so meek and low-ly 
as a mooley cow? City people are foolish 
to be frightened at cows. I was never hurt 
by a cow but once. He shook his head at 
me from behind a strong gate. I felt the 
security of my position and shied a pump- 
kin at him. He came through the gate as 
though it were a spider's web, and then I 
was sorry I did it. This kind of a cow 
should not be fooled with unless you are 
tired of monotony. The poet loves to dwell 
upon milkmaids, milking-time and lovers 
sparking over the farmyard gate, but no 
such poet could ever have milked a cow in 
fly time. I cannot imagine a successful love 
suit at such a season. I milked the cows 
one night when the boys were off on a 
Fourth of July. That is, I milked one and 
one-half cows. 

The last one was so busy knocking off 
flies with her hind foot I thought I had 
better not disturb her longer. A pail of 
fresh milk kicked over a boy does not im- 
prove his clothes or temper. Some say I 
milked from the wrong side. I thought I 
would be sure and be right, so I milked half 
on one side and half on the other. I was on 
the other side when she knocked off most 
flies. Can any one tell me why a cow should 
be permitted to dictate which side a man 
shall milk from? I claim the right of my 
choice at least half of the time. 

Sheep are my special delight. How grace- 
fully the lambs gambol over the green. I 
trust you never gamble over the green. 



413 



414 



ENCORES. 



Nothing so patient and modest as a sheep. 
Some say a scamp is the black sheep of the 
flock, but a black sheep is just as respectable 
as any, and the color line should not thus 
be drawn. I once fished on a bluff and cas- 
ually discovered a sheep with large crooked 
horns coming at me with head down and fire 
in his eyes. The fish were not biting well, 
so I left my sport and dodged behind a 
stump. The sheep fell on the rocks below 
and broke her neck. For this act I have 
since been accused of non-protection in the 
wool traffic. This reminds me of a com- 
missioner of agriculture in old times who 
purchased six hydraulic rams for the im- 
provement of American flocks. Feather beds 
are made from geese, but all woolen goods 
and drums are made from sheepskins. 

I take great pride in the horse. "He is 
the noblest Roman of them all." I once led 
Stephens' horse to water. How proudly he 
arched his neck and tail. He was so fond 
of me that he tried to embrace me with his 
front feet. But I was so shy he turned 
about and playfully knocked my hat off 
with his heels. I told Stephens I thought 
horses looked much better walking on four 
feet than on two feet. A horse presses hard 
when your toe is caught under the hoof. I 
speak not from theory, but from actual ex- 
perience. I went riding with Stephens' 
horse and he shied and danced provoking- 
ly. "Treat him kindly," said Stephens; 
"never beat a horse." By and by Stephens 
thought he would get out and walk for ex- 
ercise. "You may let him feel the lash 
a little now," said Stephens. "A little dis- 
cipline now will do him good." 

Here is a composition I wrote on farming 
when a boy : Farming is healthy work ; but 
no man can run a farm and wear his best 
clothes at the same time. Either the farm- 



ing must cease while the new clothes con- 
tinue or the new clothes must cease while 
the farming continues. This shows that 
farming is not so clean work as being a 
congressman or schoolmaster, for these men 
can wear good clothes if they can find 
money to pay for them. Farmers get up 
early in the morning. They say the early 
bird catches the worm. If I was a bird, I 
had rather get up late and eat cherries in 
place of worms. Farmers don't paint their 
wagons when they can help it, for they show 
mud too quick. The color of their boots is 
red, and don't look like other people's boots, 
because they are twice as big. Farmers' 
wives have a hard time cooking for hired 
men, and the hired men find fault with the 
farmers' wives' cooking. Why don't farm- 
ers' wives let the hired men do the cooking 
while they do the finding fault? 

Farmers don't get as rich as bank pres- 
idents, but they get more exercise. Some 
ask, "Why don't farmers run for Con- 
gress?" They run so much keeping boys 
out of their peach orchards and melon 
patches they don't have any time to run 
after anything else. If Congress should run 
after farmers, one might be caught now 
and then. Lawyers can beat farmers at 
running for most anything. I know a farm- 
er who tried to run a line fence according 
to his notion. The other man objected and 
hurt the farmer. The farmer hired a law- 
yer to run his line fence, and now the lawyer 
runs the farmer's farm and the farmer has 
stopped running anything. Speaking of 
running reminds me of cur calf that ran 
away to the woods. There were not enough 
men in the county to catch that calf. We 
turned the old cow loose in the woods, and 
she caught the calf, proving the old saying 
that it takes a cow to catch a thief. 

— Samuel L. Clemens. 



ENCORES. 



415 



THE QUEER LITTLE HOUSE. 



THERE'S a queer little house 
And it stands in the sun. 
When the good mother calls 

The children all run. 
While under her roof 

They are cozy and warm, 
Though the cold wind may whistle 
And bluster and storm. 

In the daytime, this queer 

Little house moves away, 
And the children run after it, 

Happy and gay; 
But it comes back at night, 

And the children are fed, 
And tucked up to sleep 

In a soft feather-bed. 



THE FOOLISH 

A FOOLISH little maiden bought a fool- 
ish little bonnet, 
With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of 

lace upon it; 
And, that the other maidens of the little 

town might know it, 
She thought she'd go to meeting the next 
Sunday just to show it. 

But though the little bonnet was scarce 

larger than a dime, 
The getting of it settled proved to be a 

work of time; 
So when 'twas fairly tied, and the bells had 

stopped their ringing, 
And when she came to meeting, sure 

enough, the folks were singing. 

So this foolish little maiden stood and wait- 
ed at the door; 

And she shook her ruffles out behind and 
smoothed them down before. 



This queer little house 

Has no windows nor doors— 
The roof has no shingles, 

The rooms have no floors — 
No fireplace, chimney, 

Nor stove can you see, 
Yet the children are cozy 

And warm as can be. 

The story of this 

Funny house is all true, 
I have seen it myself, 

And I think you have, too; 
You can see it to-day, 

If you watch the old hen, 
When her downy wings cover 

Her chickens again. 



LITTLE MAIDEN. 

"Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" sang the choir 

above her head. 
"Hardly knew you! Hardly knew you!" 

were the words she thought they said. 

This made the little maiden feel so very, 

very cross, 
That she gave her little mouth a twist, her 

little head a toss ; 
For she thought the very hymn they sang 

was all about her bonnet, 
With the ribbon, and the feather, and the 

bit of lace upon it. 

And she would not wait to listen to the 
sermon or the prayer, 

But pattered down the silent street, and 
hurried down the stair, 

Till she reached her little bureau, and in a 
band-box on it, 

Had hidden, safe from critic's eye, her fool- 
ish little bonnet. 



416 



ENCORES. 



Which proves, my little maidens, that each 

of you will find 
In every Sabbath service but an echo of 

your mind ; 



And the silly little head, that's filled with 

silly little airs, 
Will never get a blessing from sermon or 

from prayers. 



AIN'T HE CUTE. 



ARRAYED in snow-white pants and 
vest 
And other raiment fair to view, 
I stood before my sweetheart Sue — 
The charming creature I love best. 

'Tell me, and does my costume suit?" 
I asked that apple of my eye, 
And then the charmer made reply — 
"Oh, yes, you do look awful cute !" 



Although I frequently had heard 
My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, 



I must confess I did not know 
The meaning of that favorite word. 



But presently at window side 

We stood and watched the passing 
throng. 

And soon a donkey passed along 
With ears like sails extending wide. 
And gazing at the doleful brute 

My sweetheart gave a merry cry — 

I quote her language with a sigh — 
"Oh, Charlie, ain't he awful cute?" 

t(5* <<5* t2fi 



LARRIE O'DEE. 



NOW the Widow McGee, 
And Larrie O'Dee, 
Had two little cottages out on the green, 
With just room enough for two pigpens be- 
tween. 
The widow was young and the widow was 

fair, 
With the brightest of eyes and the brownest 

of hair; 
And it frequently chanced when she came 

in the morn 
With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with 

the corn. 
And some of the ears that he tossed from his 

hand, 
In the pen of the widow were certain to 

land. 

One morning said he : 
"Och! Misthress McGee, 
It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' 
two rigs, 



Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two 
pigs !" 

"Indade sur, it is!" answered Widow Mc- 
Gee, 

With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie 
O'Dee. 
"And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted 
and mane, 

Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near 

That whinever one grunts the other can 
hear. 

And yit kape a cruel partition betwane." 

"Shwate Widow McGee," 

Answered Larrie O'Dee, 

"If ye fale in your heart we are mane to 

the pigs, 
Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' 

two rigs ? 
Och! it made me heart ache whin I paped 
through the cracks 



ENCORES. 



417 



Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez swingin' 

yer axe ; 
An' a bobbin' yer head an' a sthompin' yer 

fate, 
Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a 

bate, 
A-sphlittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the 

shtorm, 
When one little shtove would kape us both 

warm !" 

"Now, piggy," said she, 
"Larrie's courtin' o' me, 
Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you ; 



So now yez must tell me jisht what I must 

do: 
For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid 

yer snout ; 
But if I'm to say no, ye must kape your 

nose out. 
Now, Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a 

pig 

By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig !" 
"Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered 

he. 
And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee. 

W. W. Fink. 



tG& t£& t£& 

ONLY NATION WITH A BIRTHDAY. 



THE United States is the only country 
with a known birthday. All the rest 
began, they know not when, and grew into 
power, they know not how. If there had 
been no Independence Day, England and 
America combined would not be so great as 



each actually is. There is no "Republican," 
no "Democrat," on the Fourth of July — all 
are Americans. All feel that their country 
is greater than party. 

— James G. Blaine. 



Xgfr l2rl %0& 



THE RAIL FENCE. 



IN the merry days of boyhood when we 
never knew a care 
Greater than the mumps or measles or a 

mother's cut of hair, 
When a sore toe was a treasure and a stone 

bruise on the heel 
Filled the other boys with envy which they 

tried not to conceal, 
There were many treasured objects on the 

farm we held most dear, 
Orchard, fields, the creek we swam in and 

the old spring cold and clear, 
Over there the woods of hick'ry and of oak 

so deep and dense, 
Looming up behind the outlines of the old 

rail fence. 



On its rails the quail would whistle in the 

early summer morn, 
Calling to their hiding fellows in the field 

of waving corn, 
And the meadow larks and robins on the 

stakes would sit and sing 
Till the forest shades behind them with 

their melody would ring. 
There the catbird and the jaybird sat and 

called each other names, 
And the squirrels and the chipmunks 

played the chase and catch me games, 
And the garter snake was often in unpleas- 
ant evidence 
In the grasses in the corners of the old rail 

fence. 



418 



ENCORES. 



As we grew to early manhood when we 
thought the country girls 

In the diadem of beauty were the very fair- 
est pearls 

Oft from spelling school or meeting or the 
jolly shucking bee 

Down the old lane we would wander with 
a merry little "she." 

On the plea of being tired (just the country 
lover lie), 

On a grassy seat we'd linger in the moon- 
light, she and I, 

And we'd paint a future picture touched 
with colors most intense 

As we sat there in the corner of the old 
rail fence. 



There one night in happy dreaming we 

were sitting hand in hand, 
Us so near the gates of heaven we could 

almost hear the band, 
When she heard a declaration whispered in 

her lis'ning ear — 
One she often since has told me she was 

mighty glad to hear. 
On my head there's now a desert fringed 

with foliage of gray, 
And there's many a thread of silver in her 

dear old head to-day, 
Yet the flame of love is burning in our 

bosoms as intense 
As it burned in the corner of that old rail 

fence. 



«<$* t$* 



WHICH LOVED BEST? 



I LOVE you, mother," said little Ben, 
Then forgetting his work, his cap went 
on. 
And he was off to the garden swing, 
And left her the water and wood to bring. 

"I love you, mother," said rosy Nell — 
"I love you better than tongue can tell ;" 
Then she teased and pouted full half the 

day, 
Till her mother rejoiced when she went to 

play. 

"I love you, mother," said little Fan, 



"To-day I'll help you all I can ; 

How glad I am school doesn't keep ;" 

So she rocked the babe till it fell asleep. 

Then, stepping softly, she fetched the 

broom, 
And swept the floor and tidied the room ; 
Busy and happy all day was she, 
Helpful and happy as child could be. 
"I love you, mother," again they said 
Three little children going to bed ; 
How do you think that mother guessed 
Which of them really loved her best ? 



t&* ^5* X&& 



HER FIRST PARTY. 



MISS Annabel McCarty 
Was invited to a party, 
"Your company from four to ten," the invi- 
tation said ; 
And the maiden was delighted 
To think she was invited 
To sit up till the hour when the big folks 
went to bed. 



The crazy little midget 

Ran and told her news to Bridget, 

Who clapped her hands, and danced 

to Annabel's delight, 
And said, with accents hearty, 
" 'Twill be the swatest party 
If ye're there yerself, me darlint! 
I wish it was to-night !" 



a Jig, 



ENCORES. 



419 



The great display of frilling 

Was positively killing ; 

And, oh, the little booties! and the lovely 

sash so wide ! 
And the gloves so very cunning! 
She was altogether ''stunning," 
And the whole McCarty family regarded 

her with pride. 

They gave minute directions, 

With copious interjections 

Of "sit up straight !" and "don't do this or 
that — 'twould be absurd!" 

But, with their caressing, 

And the agony of dressing, 

Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a sin- 
gle word. 

There was music, there was dancing, 
And the sight was most entrancing, 
As if fairyland and floral band were hold- 
ing jubilee; 



There was laughing, there was pouting; 
There was singing, there was shouting ; 
And young and old together made a carni- 
val of glee. 

Miss Annabel McCarty 

Was the youngest at the party, 

And every one remarked that she was beau- 
tifully dressed ; 

Like a doll she sat demurely 

On a" sofa, thinking surely 

It would never do for her to run and frolic 
with the rest. 

The noise kept growing louder; 

The naughty boys would crowd her ; 

"I think you're very rude, indeed !" the little 

lady said ; 
And then, without a warning, 
Her home instructions scorning^ 
She screamed : "I want my supper — and I 

want to go to bed !" 



c5* «*5* c5* 



THE YOUNG SEAMSTRESS. 



(For a girl 

1AM learning how to sew, though I'm 
such a little maid; 
I push the needle in and out, and make 
the stitches strong; 
I'm sewing blocks of patchwork for my 
dolly's pretty bed, 
And mamma says the way I work it will 
not take me long. 
It's over and over — do you know 
How over-and-over stitches go? 

"I have begun a handkerchief. Mamma 

turned in the edge, 
And basted it with a pink thread to show 

me where to sew; 
It has Greenaway children on it stepping 

staidly by a hedge ; 



of seven.) 

I look at them when I get tired, or the 

needle pricks, you know; 
And that is the way I learn to hem 
With hemming stitches — do you know 

them? 

"Next I shall learn to run, and darn, and 
back-stitch, too, I guess. 
It wouldn't take me long, I know, if 
'twasn't for the thread ; 
But the knots keep coming, and besides — I 
shall have to confess — 
Sometimes I slip my thimble off, and use 
my thumb instead ! 
When your thread knots, what do you 

do? 
And does it turn all brownish, too? 



420 



ENCORES. 



"My papa, he's a great big man, as much 

as six feet high; 
He's more than forty, and his hair has 

gray mixed with the black; 
Well, he can't sew — he can't begin to sew 

as well as I. 



If he loses off a button, mamma has to 
set it back ! 
You mustn't think me proud, you 

know, 
But I'm seven, and I can sew !" 



t5* ^5* ^* 



BORROWING TROUBLE. 



THERE'S many a trouble 
Would break like a bubble, 
And into the waters of Lethe depart, 
Did we not rehearse it, 
And tenderly nurse it, 
And give it a permanent place in the heart. 



There's many a sorrow 

Would vanish to-morrow, 
Were we but willing to furnish the wings ; 

So sadly intruding, 

And quietly brooding, 
It hatches out all sorts of horrible things. 



«5* «£• {£• 



WHY BETTY DIDN'T LAUGH. 



W 



HEN I was at the party," 
Said Betty (aged just four), 
"A little girl fell off her chair, 
Right down upon the floor; 
And all the other little girls 
Began to laugh, but me — 
/ didn't laugh a single bit," 
Said Betty, seriously. 



''Why not?" her mother asked her. 

Full of delight to find 
That Betty — bless her little heart ! — 

Had been so sweetly kind. 
''Why didn't you laugh, darling? 

Or don't you like to tell ?" 
"I didn't laugh," said Betty, 

"Cause it was me that fell!" 






ITS MY NATURE. 



AN aged colored man rose to a standing 
position and a point of order the other 
night with a tremulous voice and a feeble 
mien, and combated a sentiment adverse to 
the crushing out of old King Alcohol. Said 
he: 

"You 'mind me, my bredern and sistern, 
of a nannecot I wonse heerd when I was 
nigh a pickaninny. Dar was a sh't ho'n 
kalf a ramblin' ob hisself down a shady lane, 
when wot should he see but a snaik a lying 
on the ground with a big rock on his hed. 

"Says Mr. Kalf: 'Wot de matter ob you?' 



"Says Mr. Snaik: 'Please, Mr. Kalf, to 
take dis stone off my hed.' 

" 'Dunno,' says Mr. Kalf, ' 'spec you'll 
bite me.' 

" 'Deed, no,' says Mr. Snaik ; 'you take de 
stone off on' sure I'll neber bite you.' 

"So Mr. Kalf he knocked de stone off 
Mr. Snaik's hed. 

" 'Which way you gwine, Mr. Kalf, says 
Mr. Snaik. 

" 'Down dis way,' said Mr. Kalf. 

"So dey started off togedder. 



ENCORES. 



421 



"Bine by, Mr. Snaik says: 'Mr. Kalf, 
guess I'll bite you.' 

"'Why/ said Mr. Kalf, 'you said you 
wouldn't bite if I turned you loose.' 

"'I know dat,' says Mr. Snaik, 'but I 
kan't help it; it's my nature.' 

" 'Well,' says Mr. Kalf, 'we'll leave that 
queschun to de fust niggah we meet.' 

"Well, de fust niggah they met was a fox. 

'"Mr. Fox,' says Mr. Kalf, 'I took a 
stone offen Mr. Snaik's hed awhile back, 
an' he promised he wouldn't bite me; an' 
now he wants to bite anyhow/ 

" 'Well,' says Mr. Fox, 'de only way I can 



arborate de matter is to see de 'rig'nal per- 
sistans ob de parties/ 

"So dey went back, an' Mr. Snaik laid 
hisself down and Mr. Kalf put de stone on 
his hed. 

" 'Now/ says Mr. Fox, 'dat am de 'rig'- 
nal persishuns ob de 'sputants, am it?' 

"Dey bofl said it was. 

" 'Well,' said Mr. Fox, 'Mr. Kalf, you 
just go 'bout yo' bis'ness and Mr. Snaik 
won't bite you.' 

"Dass it, my bredern, dass it. You mus' 
put de stone on de hed an' gwine about yo' 
bis'ness, an' de Snaik won't bite you." 



^* t(5* c5* 



GRIND YOUR AXE IN THE MORNING. 



GRIND your axe in the morning, my 
boy !" 
'Twas a gray old woodcutter spoke, 
Beneath whose arm, on his backwoods farm, 

Had fallen the elm and oak. 
The hickory rough and the hornbeam 
tough 
Had yielded to wheat and corn, 
Till his children played 'neath the apple- 
tree's shade, 
By the cabin where they were born. 

"Grind your axe in the morning, my boy," 

He said to his lusty son ; 
"Or the hearts of oak will weary your 
stroke 

Long ere the day is done. 
The shag-bark's shell and the hemlock knot 

Defy the dull, blunt tool ; 
And maul as you may, you may waste your 
day 

If your strength is the strength of a fool. 

"Grind your axe in the morning, my boy; 

Bring the hard, bright steel to an edge ; 
The bit, like a barber's razor, keen; 

The head like a blacksmith's sledge; 



And then, through maple, and ironwood, 
and ash, 

Your stroke resistless shall drive, 
Till the forest monarchs around you crash, 

And their rugged fibers rive. 

"Grind your axe ere the sunrise shines, 

With long and patient care, 
And whet with the oil-stone, sharp and fine, 

Till the edge will clip a hair. 
And what though you reel o'er the stub- 
born steel, 

Till the toil your right arm racks, 
Pray, how could you cut the white-oak 
butt, 

If you had but a pewter axe? 

"Grind your axe and be ready, my lad ; 

Then afar in the forest glen, 
With a steady swing your stroke shall ring, 

Keeping time with the stalwart men ; 
And if you miss your grinding at dawn, 

You'll never know manhood's joys; 
No triumphs for you the long days through ; 

You must hack the bush withjhe boys." 

"Grind your axe in the morning," I heard 
Life's watchword, rude but clear; 



422 



ENCORES. 



And my soul was stirred at the homely word 
Of the backwoods sage and seer ; 

O, youth, whose long day lies before, 
Heed, heed, the woodman's warning ! 

Would you fell life's oaks with manly 
strokes, 
You must grind your axe in the morning. 

And he who dawdles and plays the fool, 
Nor longs for virtue and knowledge ; 



Who shirks at work, plays truant from 
school, 
Or "cuts" and "ponies" at college ; 
Whose soul no noble ambition fires — 

No hero-purpose employs — 
He must hoe life's fence-row among the 
briers, 
Or hack the brush with the boys. 

— George Lansing Taylor. 






LYING IN CHINA. 



PEE CHEE and Hung Li and Wun 
Fang and Chin Lo 
Are lying around in China ; 
They lie on the banks of the winding Pei- 
ho 
And in other dark spots in China; 
Gum Shoo and Dun Kee and Wun Lung 

and Yip Ye 
And Hung Lo and Hip La and Sam Yu 

and Ong We 
Are all kept as busy as they can be 
Just lying around in China. 



When the guns cease to roar and the smoke 
drifts away 
They will still lie around in China ; 
Hung Hi and Li Lo and Wun Chin and 
Kin Say 
Will be lying around in China ! 
They have caused us to hope and then left 

us to grieve, 
And the lies that they tell and the fibs that 

they weave 
Are things that the world must decline to 
believe ; 
Now let them lie down in China ! 



tgfr T£& t£& 

EASTER. 



ANIGHT, a day, another night had 
passed 
Since that strange day of sorrow and amaze 
When, on the cruel cross of Calvary, 
The pure and holy Son of Man had died. 
Scattered were they who once had followed 

Him: 
Silent the tongues that once had hailed 

Him king; 
Heavy the hearts that loved Him as their 

Lord. 

A few sad women who had followed close 
When Joseph bore Him from the cross 
away, 



And saw the sepulcher made fast and sure, 
Came early when the Sabbath day was 

past, 
Bringing sweet spices to the sacred tomb; 
And lo ! the heavy stone was rolled away. 
They looked within and saw the empty 

place, 
And mournfully unto each other said, 
"Where have they laid the body of our 

Lord?" 

But as they drew with lingering steps 

away, 
An angel, clad in shining garments, said, 



ENCORES. 



423 



"Why seek among the dead, the risen 

Lord? 
Did He not say that He would rise again! 
He is arisen ; quickly go and tell 
The great glad tidings to His followers." 
With joyful haste they bore the wondrous 

news, 
And on from lip to lip the story passed : 
"The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." 

So broke the morning of the gospel day; 
So came the heavenly springtime to the 

world. 
As in the trembling light of early dawn, 
And in the first faint pulsings of the spring, 
We read the promise of the day's high sun, 
And the glad gathering of the harvest 

sheaves, 
So in the dawning of that Easter morn, 
There shone the brightness that was yet 

to be. 

The day has risen to its noontide hour, 
And still the joyful message is as sweet 
As when, on Easter morning long ago, 
The women told it in Jerusalem, — 
"The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." 
Repeat the message, O ye happy ones, 



Upon whose hearts no darkness ever fell! 
Repeat it, ye upon whose rayless night, 
The brightness of His shining has come in ! 
And ye who are afar, take the refrain, 
"The Lord is risen, risen from the dead," 
And with the joyful news the light will 
come. 

O lily white, yield all your rich perfume! 
O bird, sing ever sweet your vernal song! 
O brook, glance brightly in the morning 

sun! 
Lend all your charms to grace the hallowed 

day 
Wherein we sing the ever-new, glad song, 
"The Lord is risen, risen from the dead." 

Christ is risen ! Let the swell 
Of the holy Easter bell 
All the wond'rous story tell. 



Sound, O bell, your dulcet 

Lift, O child, your voice, and sing, 

For again has come the King. 

And, fair lily, lift your head; 
All your sweetest incense shed; 
Christ is risen from the dead! 

— Marion Riche. 



10* 1&*f t(7* 



THE BUILDERS. 



O 



NCE there was a sort of a sailor 



man- 



Kind that loves to study an' plan ; 
Had no reverence under the sun 
For a thing that's only half-way done. 
Made no difference to him, it 'pears, 
If it'd been that way ten thousand years. 
So he sailed, one day, out into the sea, 
Past the bound of all seas that used to be ; 
Past the rim of the world; past the edge 

of things, 
Down the slant of the sky where chaos 

springs ; 



Past the hem of the twilight's dusky robe; 
Down the slope of the globe — 'fore there 

was a globe ! 
And what do you reckon he goes and does ? 
Spoiled every map of the world there was ! 
But he made a better one. 

Once was a man who had an idee 
That everything was 'cause it had to be. 
An' every "must," he used to say, 
Had a law behind it, plain as day ; 
An' he used to argy, if you could find 
The law that gave the "thing" its mind, 



424 



ENCORES. 



By using your brains, and hands, and eyes, 
You could break the "must" to be bridle 

wise; 
To "haw" an' "gee," "geddap" an' "whoa !" 
To stand an' back ; to come an' go ; 
Jest learn to use, this man, says he, 
Your "think" instead of your memory. 



So he got to thinkin' one day 'bout steam ; 
An' he'd think, an' study, an' whittle, an' 

dream — 
An' 'fore he got through, what you reckon 

he'd done? 
Wrecked every stage-coach under the sun ! 
But he made a better one. 



<5* «<?* «($• 



SISTER SALLIE JONES. 



IN big revival-meetin' time, when sinners 
crowded round 
The mourner's bench to git their feet sot 

onto solid ground, 
To git 'em pulled by Christian faith from 

out the mire an' clay 
An' have their strayin' footsteps sot toward 

eternal day, 
One voice 'd rise above the rest in clear and 

searchin' tones, — 
The wonderful arousin' voice of Sister Sal- 
lie Jones ; 
'T'd cheer the mourners, prayin' there, to 

hear her glad refrain: 
There is a land o' pure delight where saints 

immortal reign! 

01' Jonas Treat 'd start the tune, pitched in 

the proper key, 
An' then Aunt Sallie she'd break in, an' 

goodness ! mercy me ! 
But how that meetin'-house 'd ring till 

every head 'd swim 
To hear her jerk the music from some ol' 

revival hymn! 
She'd look 'way back towards the door, 

where unsaved sinners sot, 
An' sing right at 'em till they seemed all 

rooted to the spot: 
There is a fountain filled zvith blood drawn 

from Immanuel's veins, 
An' sinners plunged beneath that Hood lose 

all their guilty stains. 



She'd long to stand where Moses stood, an' 

view the lan'scape o'er, 
Would some day set her ransomed feet on 

Canaan's happy shore, 
An' sometimes sing ontil I thought the 

angels all could hear: 
Amazin' grace, how sweet the sound in a 

believer's ear! 
An' every heart 'd feel a thrill o' sympa- 
thetic pain 
When she would raise her tender eyes an' 

sing the sad refrain : 
Alas, an' did my Savior bleed an' did my 

sovereign die? 
Would He devote that sacred head fur sich 

a zvorm as If 

I've of'n heerd the preacher say that voice 

to her was given 
To rescue sinners from their sins an' start 

'em up to heaven, 
An' cheer the droopin' hearts o' them 

whose burdens bent them down 
An' fill them full o' new resolves to fight 

an' win the crown. 
Sometimes I sit in wakin' dreams an' 

memory takes wing 
Back to the long ago an' I kin hear Aunt 

Sallie sing: 
When I can read my title clear to mansions 

in the skies, 
I'll bid farwell to every fear an' wipe my 

weepin' eyes. 



ENCORES. 



425 



She's been at rest fur many years beside 
the church that she 

Once filled with sweet an' soul-felt strains 
o' sacred melody; 

An* I've an idee 'fore she died the mourn- 
ers heerd her sing: 

0, grave, where is thy victory f 0, death, 
where is thy sting? 



An' when she entered heaven's gate, with 

glad, triumphant tongue, 
I bet she clapped her saintly hands an' 

rapturously sung: 
Here will I bathe my wearied soul in seas 

o' heavenly rest, 
An' not a wave o> trouble roll across my 

peaceful breast. 



t&* <£& t&fc 



THAT OLD RED SUNBONNET. 



HOW dear to my heart are the scenes 
of my childhood 
When fond recollection presents them 
to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled 
wildwood 
And every fond spot which my infancy 
knew." 
So sang the old poet in rhythmical measure, 
And millions have dreamed of his 
picture so fair, 
But never a word of that one crowning 
treasure, 
The old red sunbonnet our girls used to 
wear. 

The bells of to-day in their scorn would 
deride it 
And wonder how maidens could wear 
such a fright! 
But when 'twas protecting a dear head in- 
side it 
To old-fashioned boys 'twas a heavenly 
sight. 
No ornaments decked it, it bore no fine 
laces j 
No ribbons of bright colored hues did it 
bear, 
But hid in its depths was the sweetest of 
faces — 
That old red sunbonnet our girl used to 
wear. 



When school was dismissed, on her head 
we would set it 
And tie the long strings in a knot 'neath 
her chin, 
Then claim from her red lips a kiss and 
would get it, 
For kissing in old days was never a sin. 
Then homeward we'd speed where the 
brooklet was plashing 
Down through the old wood and the 
meadow so fair, 
The skies not more blue than the eyes that 
were flashing 
Inside that sunbonnet our girl used to 
wear. 

In front of her mirror a proud dame is 
standing 
Arranging a prize on her head, now so 
white ! 
She turns, while her bosom with pride is 
expanding, 
And asks if it is not a dream of delight ! 
I speak of the past as I make the inspec- 
tion, 
Of days when to me she was never more 
fair, 
And tears gem her eyes at the fond recol- 
lection 
Of that old sunbonnet she once used to 
wear. 

— James Barton Adams. 



426 



ENCORES. 



O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN I 

(This exquisite poem refers to our martyred Lincoln.) 



O CAPTAIN, my Captain ! our fearful 
trip is done, 
The ship has weather'd every rack, the 

prize we sought is won, 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people 

all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the 
vessel grim and daring; 
But O heart, heart, heart! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 
Where on the deck my Captain lies 
Fallen, cold and dead. 

O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear 

the bells; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you 

the bugle trills, 
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths, for 

you the shores a-crowding, 



For you they call, the swaying mass, their 
eager faces turning: 
Here, Captain ! dear father ! 

This arm beneath your head! 

It is some dream that on the deck 

You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are 

pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no 

pulse nor will, 
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its 

voyage closed and done, 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in 
with object won ; 
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 

But I, with mournful tread, 
Walk the deck — my Captain lies 
Fallen, cold and dead. 






THE GOOD OLD TIME RELIGION. 



THE good old time religion that we 
have in Bowerville; 
This is the kind that suits me, an' the kind 

that always will. 
There ain't no pew that isn't free — the 

same as heav'nly grace — 
But then I sort of claim a seat up in the 

"Amen" place. 
An' it is good to hear the way the old-time 

stanzas ring 
When Parson Brown lines out the hymn 

an' says, "Arise an' sing." 

The good, old-time religion, an' the old- 
time music, too, 

It sets your soul a-singin' 'fore the verse is 
half way through. 

There ain't no high priced singer, who 
seems too good fer earth, 



A-warblin just enough to give the folks 

their money's worth. 
The congregation sings the song; it may 

get off the key, 
But still the old-time praise an' song is 

good enough for me. 

The good, old-time religion — the new kinds 
are too strange, 

But, thank the Lord that heaven hasn't suf- 
fered any change ! 

We still believe that heaven is our home up 
in the skies, 

An' it is still old fashioned when we call it 
"paradise." 

We've got new streets an' 'lectric lights an' 
waterworks, but still 

We've got old-time religion in the church 
at Bowerville. 



ENCORES. 



427 



BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. 



IN speaking of a person's faults, 
Pray don't forget your own; 
Remember those with homes of glass, 

Should seldom throw a stone. 
If we have nothing else to do 
But talk of those who sin, 
Tis better we commenced at home, 
And from that point begin. 

We have no right to judge a man 

Until he's fairly tried ; 
Should we not like his company, 

We know the world is wide. 
Some may have faults — and who 
not?— 

The old as well as young; 
Perhaps we may, for aught we know, 

Have fifty to their one. 



has 



I'll tell you of a better plan, 

And find it works full well: 
To try my own defects to cure 

Before of others' tell; 
And though I sometimes hope to be 

No worse than some I know, 
My own shortcomings bid me let 

The faults of others go. 

Then let us all, when we commence 

To slander friend or foe, 
Think of the harm one word may do 

To those we little know. 
Remember, curses sometimes, like 

Our chickens, "roost at home ;" 
Don't speak of others' faults until 

We have none of our own. 



5,5* K0* t£* 

MEMORY. 

(The following poem was written by President Garfield during his senior year in William's 

College, Mass.) 



? r I ^ IS beauteous night; the stars look 

1 brightly down 

Upon the earth decked in her robe of snow. 
No lights gleam at the windows save my 

own 
Which gives its cheer to midnight and to 

me. 



And now with noiseless step sweet memory 

comes 
And leads me gently through her twilight ; 
What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung 

realms 
Or delicatest pencil e'er portrayed 
The enchanted shadow land where memory 

dwells ? 
It has its valleys, cheerless, lone and drear, 
Dark, shaded, mournful, cypress tree; 
And yet its sunlit mountain tops are bathed 



In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy 

cliffs 
Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, 
Are clustered joys serene of other days. 
Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend 
The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust 
Of dear departed ones ; yet in that land, 
Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore, 
They that were sleeping rise from out the 

dust 
Of death's long, silent years, and round us 

stand 
As erst they did before the prison tomb 
Received their clay within its voiceless 

halls. 
The heavens that bend above that land are 

hung 
With clouds of various hues. Some dark 

and chill, 



42* 



ENCORES. 



Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre 

shade 
Upon the sunny, joyous land below. 
Others are floating through the dreamy air, 
White as the falling snow, their margins 

tinged 
With gold and crimson hues ; their shadows 

fall 
Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, 
Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing. 
When the rough battle of the day is done, 
And evening's peace falls gently on the 

heart, 
I bound away, across the noisy years, 
Unto the utmost verge of memory's land, 
Where earth and sky in dreamy distance 

meet, 
And memory dim with dark oblivion joins ; 
Where woke the first remembered sound 

that fell 



Upon the ear in childhood's early morn ; 
And, wandering thence along the rolling 

years, 
I see the shadow of my former self, 
Gliding from childhood up to man's estate ; 
The path of youth winds down through 

many a vale, 
And on the brink of many a dread abyss, 
From out whose darkness comes no ray of 

light, 
Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf 
And beckons toward the verge. Again the 

path 
Leads. o'er the summit where the sunbeams 

fall: 
And thus in light and shade, sunshine and 

gloom, 
Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along. 
— James Abram Garfield. 



%a* t£fr t£& 



A TALE OF "WHOA." 



MORNING. 

GOODBY, old horse, we'll turn you out 
To roam o'er hill and plain ; 
We've bought a horseless carriage, and 

We'll never need you again. 
With naphtha, oil or gasoline 

We'll ride from morn till dark 
And on a Sunday afternoon 

Go puffing through the park. 
You're hardly worth a piece of pie ! 
Goodby, old horse, goodby! 



EVENING. 

Come here, old horse, we need your pull 

To get us home to-night; 
This nasty, stinking, puffing thing 

Is not perfected — quite. 
Ten miles from home it fussed and fumed 

And then refused to go, 
And, minus both a push and pull, 

It was a case of whoa ! 
If you'll return, so will our joy, 
Good boy, old horse, good boy. 



t2& *&* «<5* 

THE MAN WHO KNOWS IT ALL. 



YOU bump against him everywhere, in 
country and in town ; 
Upon his sadly swollen head he wears the 

knowledge crown. 
His bump of self-esteem stands out like 
knots upon a log; 



His egotism never yet was known to slip 

a cog. 
His self assurance has its stamp forever in 

his eyes ; 
No gray and patriarchal owl could ever 

look so wise; 



ENCORES. 



429 



He is a constant sufferer from enlargement 

of the gall 
And petrifaction of the cheek, the man who 

knows it all. 

He has an unimpeded flow of language at 
command ; 

His active, tireless tongue is of the auto- 
matic brand. 

His nasal organ he inserts in every one's 
affairs ; 



He sows the grain of knowledge, while his 
neighbors sow the tares. 

No matter what the theme may be, he's 
. posted up to date ; 

The information that he bears would wreck 
a common pate. 

He thinks without his guidance this ter- 
restrial whirling ball 

Would cease to take its daily spin, the man 
who knows it all. 

— James Barton Adams. 



C$* X£& t^fc 



THE COURTIN'. 



GOD makes sech nights, all white an' 
still 
Fur'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru the winder, 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 
With half a cord o' wood in — 

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her, 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 

An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 



'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur; 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, Ai, 

Clear grit an' human natur' ; 
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 

Nor dror a furrer straighten 

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
He'd squired 'em, danced 'era, druv 'em, 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple, — 

The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in April. 

She thought no voice hed such a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir ; 
My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
When her new meetin' bunnet 

Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 
O' blue eyes sot upon it. 



430 



ENCORES. 



Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelin's flew, 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle ; 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a juerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ?" 
"Wal — no — I come dasignin' — " 

"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'nin." 

To say why gals acts so or so, 

Or don't 'ould be presumin'; 
Mebby to mean yes an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 



He stood a spell on one foot fust, 
Then stood a spell on t'other, 

An' on which one he felt the wust 
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, "I'd better call agin," 
Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
An' — wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jest the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary, 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost 'roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin' 
Tell mother see how metters stood, 

An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay of Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In' meetin' come nex' Sunday. 



t&* t£* fcT* 

MY BOB-SLED 

MADE it all myself, you see; it wasn't 
much fer fine; 
Fellers all began to laugh at that ol' sled uv 

mine, 
When they see me climbin' up ther hill we 

used to slide, 
A-draggin' it along behin', all ready for a 

ride— 
Then they shouted, scornful like: "Say, 

Jimmie, what it is?" 
Didn't feel like sayin' much, so 'tended to 

my biz; 
Jes' let 'em keep on laughin' an' a-tauntin' 

me, until 



I squared my ol' bob-sled around fer my 
first slide down ther hill. 



The runners were of hickory, and the top 
was made uv oak. 

When I got her finished, wa'n't no part 
could be broke ; 

But the other fellers' sleds were all so 
bang-up slick and fine, 

Kinder knocked the spots all off that home- 
made one uv mine; 

The bottoms were so slippery, an' polished 
up so bright, 



ENCORES. 



431 



I was ready to bet she'd go ahead uv every- 
thing in sight; 

But I never answered back a word, an' was 
mighty quiet till 

I laid right down an' hugged her tight, fer 
my first run down ther hill. 

Didn't have a mite uv paint on bottom, 

sides, or top; 
Knew if she once got started though, 

'twould be mighty hard to stop. 
'Twas seasoned stuff she was made uv, an' 

jes' ther shape fer speed, 
Might keep a-pokin' lots uv fun, I knew 

she'd take ther lead. 
There was Clipper, Comet, Reindeer, an' 

Dexter there, an' Dart — 
All lined up on ther hillside, an' ready fer 

the start. 

THE MITES IN 

THE cheese mites asked how the cheese 
got there, 
And warmly debated the matter. 
The orthodox said it came from the air, 
And the heretics said from the platter. 
They argued it long, and they argued it 
strong, 



My ol' bob-sled didn't hev no name. I'se 

bound she wouldn't till 
I found out which would suit her best, by 

my first slide down ther hill. 
An' then we shouted : "One, two, three, an' 

altogether. Go!" 
Gee whiz! the way that bob-sled flew was 

anything but slow : 
She shot ahead like a rocket that's got lots 

uv powder behin' ; 
None uv the rest was in it, when you 

looked back up ther line. 

She beat 'em like a thoroughbred, if she did 

look like a scrub, 
'Twas my turn now ter laugh an' shout: 

"Gimme yer heads to rub !" 
"Say, Jimmie, won't yer let us ride?" an' I 

said: "Course I will;" 
For they owned my bob-sled beat 'em all 

a-slidin' down ther hill. 



THE CHEESE. 

And I hear they are arguing it now, 
But of all the choice spirits who lived ifc 
the cheese 
Not one of them thought of a cow. 

— A. Conan Doyle. 



<&& c5* t<5* 



T 



PITCHER 

HEY toiled together side by side, 
In the field where the corn was grow- 



They paused awhile to quench their thirst, 
Grown weary with the hoeing. 

"I fear, my friend," I said to one, 
"That you will ne'er be richer ; 

You drink, I see, from the little brown jug, 
Whilst your friend drinks from the 
pitcher. 



OR JUG. 

"One is filled with alcohol, 

The fiery drink from the still ; 

The other with water clear and cool 
From the spring at the foot of the hill. 

"In all of life's best gifts, my friend, 
I fear you will ne'er be richer, 

Unless you leave the little brown jug, 
And drink, like your friend, from the 
pitcher." 



432 



ENCORES. 



My words have proved a prophecy, 
For years have passed away ; 

How do you think have fared our friends 
That toiled in the fields that day ? 



One is a reeling, drunken sot, 
Grown poorer instead of richer; 

The other has won both wealth and fame, 
And he always drank from the pitcher. 



&7* t^* ^* 



VAT I CALL HIM. 



DER leddle boy vot yust arrived 
Aboud some veeks ago, 
His voice was learning for to make 

Dot noise vich is a crow. 
Und also somedimes ven I vent 

Und sboke mit him a vile, 
He tvists his leddle face arount 
Und makes vot is a smile ! — 
I vonder vot to call him? 

Some say Thomas, 
Some say Tim; 
Some say Stephen, 
Some say Jim; 
Some say Diederich, 
Some say Matt; 
Some say Daniel, 
Some say Pat; 
Some say Goethe, 
Some say Choe; 
Vot to call him 
I doan'd know. 



I ask dot leddle boy himself 

Vot name he dinks vill do, 
Und den he makes a funny vink 

Und says py me, "Ah, Goo!" 
Ah Goo ! dot is a Chinese name ! 

I guess vot he doan'd like 
To be called dot ven he grows up, 

Much bedder id vas Mike ! 
I wonder vot I call him? 

Some say Heinrich, 
Some say Net; 
Some say Villum, 
Some say Fret; 
Some say Dewey, 
Some say Schley, 
Some say Sampson, 
Some say Si; 
Some say Chasper, 
Some say Snitz; 
So I dink I 
Call him Fritz. 






WATER 

WINE, wine, thy power and praise 
Have ever been echoed in minstrel 

lays; 
But water, I deem, hath a mightier claim 
To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame. 
Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school 
May sneer at my strain, as the song of a 

fool; 
Ye are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn 
How the tongue can cleave, and the veins 

can burn. 



Should you ever be one of a fainting band, 
With your brow to the sun and your feet 

to the sand 
I would wager the thing I'm most loth to 

spare, 
That your Bacchanal chorus would never 

ring there. 
Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell 
What treasures exist in the cold, deep well ; 
Sink in despair on the red, parched earth, 
And then you may reckon what water is 
worth. 



ENCORES. 



433 



Famine is laying her hand of bone 
On the ship becalmed in a torrid zone ; 
The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past, 
But fiery Thirst lives on to the last. 
The stoutest one of the gallant crew 
Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue ; 
The hot blood stands in each glassy eye ; 
And, "Water, O <^od !" is the only cry. 



There's drought in the land, and the herbage 

is dead, 
No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed : 
The herd's low bleat, and the sick man's 

pant, 
Are mournfully telling the boon we want. 
Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold, 
How soon we find it is better than gold ; 
And water, I say, hath a right to claim 
The minstrel's song, and a tithe of Fame. 
<£ <£ S 



CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN RICHES. 



Arthur Rich: 

YOUR hat is too big for your head, 
Martin Lee, 
Your jacket is threadbare and old, 
There's a hole in your shoe and a patch on 
your knee, 
Yet you seem very cheerful and bold. 

Martin Lee: 
Why not, Arthur Rich ? for my lesson I say, 

And my duty I try hard to do ; 
I have plenty of work, I have time, too, to 
play, 
I have health, and my joys are not few. 

Arthur Rich: 
See my vest, Martin Lee, and my boots how 
they shine! 
My jacket, my trousers, all new ! 



Now, would you not like such a nice ring 
as mine? 
Come, give me the answer that's true. 

Martin Lee: 
Such clothes, Arthur Rich, would become 
me, and please, 
But I'm content in the thought, 
Since my mother is poor, that I'd rather 
wear these 
Than make her work more than she 
ought. 

Arthur Rich: 
You are right, Martin Lee, and your way 
is the best; 
Your hat is now handsome to me ; 
I look at the heart beating under your vest, 
And the patches no longer I see. 



1&& t&& %&& 

,THE TABLES TURNED. 

(Can be used as a dialogue.) 



1KNOW what you're going to say," she 
said, 
And she stood up, looking uncommonly 

tall; 
"You are going to speak of the hectic fall, 
And say you are sorry the summer's dead, 
And no other summer was like it, you 
know, 



And can I imagine what made it so ? 
Now, ain't you, honestly ?" "Yes," I said. 

"I know what you're going to say," she 

said; 
"You're going to ask if I forget 
That day in June when the woods were 

wet, 



434 



ENCORES. 



And you carried me" — here she dropped her 
head — 
"Over the creek; you are going to say, 
Do I remember that horrid day ? 

Now, ain't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. 

"I know what you're going to say," she 
said; 
"You are going to say that since that 

time 
You have rather tended to run to rhyme ; 
And," — her clear glance fell, and her cheek 
grew red, — 
"And have I noticed your tone was queer ; 



Why, everybody has seen it here ! 
Now, ain't you, honestly?" "Yes," I said. 

"I know what you're going to say," I said, 
"You are going to say you've been much 

annoyed, 
And I'm short of tact — you will say, de- 
void — 
And I'm clumsy and awkward, and call me 
Ted, 
And I'll bear abuse like a dear old lamb, 
And you'll have me, anyway, just as I 



am 



Now, ain't you, honestly?" 
said. 



( Ye— es," she 



IT was an old, old, old, old lady, 
And a boy who was half-past three ; * 
And the way that they played together 
Was beautiful to see. 

She couldn't go running and jumping, 
And the boy no more could he, 

For he was a thin little fellow, 
With a thin, little, twisted knee. 

They sat in the yellow sunlight, 

Out under the maple tree ; 
And the game they played, I'll tell you, 

Just as it was told to me. 

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were play- 
ing, 

Though you'd never known it to be, 
With an old, old, old, old lady, 

And a boy with a twisted knee. 

The boy would bend his face down, 
On his one little sound right knee, 

And he'd guess where she was hiding, 
In guesses One, Two, Three ! 

"You are in the china-closet!" 

He would cry, and laugh with glee, 



^5* t^* *<5* 

"ONE, TWO, THREE." 

It wasn't the china-closet, 



But he still had Two and Three. 

"You are up in Papa's big bedroom, 
In the chest with the queer old key !" 

And she said: "You are warm and 
warmer ; 
But you're not quite right," said she. 

"It can't be the little cupboard, 

Where Mamma's things used to be — 

So it must be the clothes-press, Grandma !" 
And he found her with his Three. 

Then she covered her face with her ringers, 
That were wrinkled and white and wee, 

And she guessed where the boy was hiding, 
With a One and a Two and a Three. 

And they had never stirred from their 
places, 
Right under the maple-tree — 
This old, old, old, old lady, 

And the boy with the lame little knee — 
This dear, dear, dear, old lady, 

And the boy who was half-past three. 
— H. C. Bunner. 



Pauline Pavlovna 



>s«£*e£€e09*ee?«®#3 



T. B. ALDRICH. 



Period: The present time. 
Scene: St. Petersburg. A ballroom in 
the winter palace of the Prince. The 
ladies in character costumes and masks. 
The gentlemen in official dress and un- 
masked, with the exception of six tall 
figures in scarlet kaftans, who are treated 
with marked distinction as they move 
here and there among the promenaders. 
Quadrille music throughout the dialogue. 
Count Ser gius Pavlovich Panshine, who 
has just arrived, is standing anxiously in 
the doorway of an antechamber with his 
eye fixed upon a lady in costume of a 
maid of honor in the time of Catherine II. 
The lady presently disengages herself 
from the crowd, and passes near Count 
Panshine, who impulsively takes her by 
the hand and leads her across the thres- 
hold of the inner apartment, which is 
unoccupied. 

He. 
Pauline ! 

She. 
You knew me? 

He. 
How could I have failed? 
A mask may hide your features, not your 

soul. 
There's an air about you like the air that 

folds a star. 
A blind man knows the night, and feels the 

constellations. 
No coarse sense of eye or ear had made you 

plain to me. 
Through these I had not found you; for 

your eyes, 
As blue as violets of our Novgorod, look 
black behind your mask there, 



And your voice — I had not known that 

either. 
My heart said, "Pauline Pavlovna.*' 

She. 
Ah, your heart said that? 
You trust your heart, then ! 
'Tis a serious risk! 
How is it you and others wear no mask? 

He. 

The emperor's orders. 

She. 
Is the emperor here ? I have not seen him. 

He. 
He is one of the six in scarlet kaftans and 

all masked alike. 
Watch — you will note how every one bows 

down 
Before those figures, thinking each by 

chance 
May be the Tsar; yet none know which is 

'he. 
Even his counterparts are left in doubt. 
Unhappy Russia ! No serf ever wore 
Such chains as gall our emperor these sad 

days. 
He dare trust no man. 

She. 
All men are so false. 

He. 
Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna. 

She. 
No ! All, all ! 

I think there is no truth left in the world, 
In man or woman. 

Once were noble souls 

Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night? 



435 



436 



PAULINE PAVLOVNA, 



He. 
Ah, then you know ! I thought to tell you 

first. 
Not here, beneath these hundred curious 

eyes, 
In all this glare of light; but in some place 
Where I could throw me at your feet and 

weep. 
In what shape came the story to your ears ? 
Decked in the tellers' colors, I'll be sworn; 
The truth, but in the livery of a lie, 
And so must wrong me. Only this is true : 
The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life 
To shield a life as wretched as my own, 
Bestows upon me as supreme reward — 

irony! — the hand of this poor girl. 
Says: "Here I have the pearl of pearls for 

you, 
Such as was never plucked from out the 

deep 
By Indian diver for a Sultan's crown ; 
Your joy's decreed." 
And stabs me with a smile. 

She. 
And she — she loves you. 

He. 

1 know not, indeed. Likes me, perhaps. 
What matters it? — her love! 

Sidor Yurievich, the guardian, consents, 

and she consents. 
No love in it at all — a mere caprice, 
A young girl's spring-tide dream. 
Sick of her earrings, weary of her mare, 
She'll have a lover — something ready-made 
Or improvised between two cups of tea — 
A love by imperial ukase ! 
Fate said the word— I chanced to be the 

man! 
If that grenade the crazy student threw 
Had not spared me as well as spared the 

Tsar 
All this would not have happened ; I'd have 

been a hero, 



But quite safe from her romance. 
She takes me for a hero — think of that ! 
Now, by our holy Lady of Kazan, 
When I have finished pitying myself I'll 
pity her. 

She. 
Oh, no; begin with her; she needs it most. 

He. 

At her door lies the blame, whatever falls. 
She, with a single word, with half a tear, 
Had stop't it at the first, 
This cruel juggling with poor human 
hearts. 

She. 
The Tsar commanded it — you said the Tsar. 

He. 
The Tsar does what she wills — God fath- 
oms why. 
Were she his mistress now! but there's no 

snow 
Whiter within the bosom of a cloud ; 
Nor colder, either. She is very haughty, 
For all her fragile air of gentleness ; 
With something vital in her, like those 

flowers 
That on our desolate steppes outlast the 

year. 
Resembles you in some things. It was that 
First made us friends. I do her justice, 

see! 
For we were friends in that smooth sur- 
face way 
We Russians have imported out of France. 
Alas ! from what a blue and tranquil heaven 
This bolt fell on me ! After these two years, 
My suit with Ossip Leminofr" at end, 
The old wrong righted, the estates restored, 
And my promotion, with the ink not dry ! 
Those fairies which neglected me at birth 
Seemed now to lavish all good gifts on 

me — 
Gold roubles, office, sudden dearest friends. 



PAULINE PAVLOVNA. 



437 



The whole world smiled ; then, as I stooped 

to taste 
The sweetest cup, freak dashed it from my 

lip. 
This very night — just think — this very 

night 
I planned to come and beg of you the alms 
I dared not ask for in my poverty. 
I thought me poor, then. How stript am I 

now! 
There's not a ragged mendicant one meets 
Along the Nevski Prospekt but has leave 

to tell his love, 
And I have not that right! 
Pauline Pavlovna, why do you stand there 
Stark as a statue, with no word to say? 

She. 
Because this thing has frozen up my heart. 
I think that there is something killed in me, 
A dream that would have mocked all other 

bliss. 
What shall I say? What would you have 

me say? 

He. 
If it be possible, the word of words ! 

She (very slowly). 
Well, then — I love you. I may tell you so 
This once — and then forever hold my peace. 
We cannot stay here longer unobserved. 
No — do not touch me, but stand further off, 
And seem to laugh, as if we jested — 
Eyes, eyes everywhere! 
Now turn your face away — 
I love you! 

He. 
With such music in my ears I would death 

found me. 
It were sweet to die listening! You love 



me — prove it. 



She. 



Prove it — how? I prove it saying it. 
How else? 



He. 
Pauline, I have three things to choose 

from; you shall choose. 
This marriage, or Siberia, or France. 
The first means hell ; the second, purgatory ; 
The third— with you — were nothing less 

than heaven! 

She (starting). 
How dared you even dream it! 

He. 
I was mad. This business has touched me 

in the brain. 
Have patience ! the calamity 's so new. 

Pauses — 
There is a fourth way, but the gate is shut 
To brave men who hold life a thing of God. 

She. 
Yourself spake there; the rest was not of 
you. 

He. 
Oh, lift me to your level ! So, I'm safe. 
What's to- be done ? 

She. 
There must be some path out. Perhaps the 
Emperor 

He. 
Not a ray of hope! 

His mind is set on this with that insistence 
Which seems to seize on all match-making 

folk— 
The fancy bites them, and they straight go 

mad. 

She. 
Your father's friend, the metropolitan — 
A word from him. 

He. 
Alas, he, too, is bitten! 
Gray-haired, gray-hearted, worldly wise, he 

sees 
This marriage makes me the Tsar's protege 
And opens every door to preference. 



438 



PAULINE PAVLOVNA. 



She. 
Think while I think. There surely is some 

key 
Unlocks the labyrinth, could we but find it. 

Nastasia ! 

He. 

What, beg life of her? Not I. 

She. 
Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps 
Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. 
Were she told all would she not pity us ? 
For if she love you — as I think she must — 
Would not some generous impulse stir in 

her, 
Some latent, unsuspected spark illume ? 
How love thrills even commonest girl-clay ! 
Ennobling it an instant, if no more! 
You said that she is proud ; then touch her 

pride, 
And turn her into marble with the touch. 
But yet the gentle passion is the stronger. 
Go to her, tell her in some tenderest phrase 
That will not hurt too much — ah, but 'twill 

hurt !— 
Just how your happiness lies in her hand 
To make or mar for all time ; hint, not say, 
Your heart is gone from you, and you may 

find 

He. 
A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul 
For, say, a month; then some Siberian 

town. 
Not this way lies escape. At my first word 
That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to 

fire 
In every vein. 

She. 
How blindly you read her 
Or any woman ! Yes, I know, I grant 
How small we often seem to our small 

world 
Of trivial cares and narrow precedents — 
Lacking that wide horizon stretched for 

men — 
Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse ; 



But when it comes to suffering mortal 

pangs, 
The weakest of us measures pulse with you. 

He. 
Yes, you, not she. If she were at your 

height ! 
But there's no martyr wrapt in her rose 

flesh. 
There should have been, for Nature gave 

you both 
The self-same purple for your eyes and 

hair, 
The self-same southern music to your lips — 
Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same 

mold, 
Yet failed to put the soul in one of you ! 
I know her wilful — her light head quite 

turned 
In this court atmosphere of flatteries ; 
A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, 
And since, spoiled here ; as soft as swan's 

down, now, 
With words like honey melting from the 

comb, 
But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. 
I fancy her between two rosy smiles 
Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk 

mines !" 
That is the sum of her. 
She. 
You know her not. 

Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask 
Could hide the soul ; yet how you have mis- 
taken 
The soul these two months — and the face 

to-night ! 

(She remove mask.) 
He. 
You ! — it was you ! 

She. 
Count Sergius Pavlovich, go find Pauline 

Pavlovna — she is here — 
And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. 
(Goes out hurriedly.) 



Historical and Pathetic 



In this department have been grouped many choice selections adapted to the highest 

forms of emotional expression. 

c^* ^* t&& 

FADING LEAF. 



THE 

WE all do fade as a leaf." The sad 
voice whispers through my soul, 
and a shiver creeps over from the church- 
yard. "How does a leaf fade?" It is a 
deeper, richer, stronger voice, with a ring 
and an echo in it, and the shiver levels into 
peace. I go out upon the October hills and 
question the genii of the woods. "How does 
a leaf fade ?" Grandly, magnificently, impe- 
rially, so that the glory of its coming is 
eclipsed by the glory of its departing; thus 
the forests make answer to-day. The ten- 
der bud of April opens its bosom to the 
wooing sun. From the soft airs of May and 
the clear sky of June it gathers greenness 
and strength. Through all the summer its 
manifold lips are open to every passing 
breeze, and great draughts of health course 
through its delicate veins and meander 
down to the sturdy bark, the busy sap, the 
tiny flower and the maturing fruit, bearing 
life for the present, and treasuring up prom- 
ise for the future. 

Then its work is done, and it goes to its 
burial, not mournfully, not reluctantly, but 
joyously, as to a festival. Its grave-clothes 
wear no funereal look. It robes itself in 
splendor. Solomon in all his glory was not 
arrayed like one of these. First there was 
a flash of crimson in the lowlands, then a 
glimmer of yellow on the hillside, then, 
rushing on exultant, reckless, rioting in 
color, grove vies with grove till the woods 
are all aflame. Here the sunlight streams 
through the pale gold tresses of the maple, 



serene and spiritual, like the aureole of a 
saint ; there it lingers in bold dalliance with 
the dusky orange of the walnut. 

The fierce heart of the tropics beats in 
blood-red branches that surge against deep, 
solemn walls of cypress and juniper. 
Yonder a sober, but not sombre, russet 
tones down the flaunting vermilion. The 
intense glow of scarlet struggles for su- 
premacy with the quiet sedateness of brown, 
and the numberless tints of year-long green 
come in everywhere to enliven and soothe 
and subdue and harmonize. So the leaf 
fades — brilliant, gorgeous, gay, rejoicing — 
as the bride adorned for her husband, as a 
king goes to his coronation. 

But the frosts come whiter and whiter. 
The nights grow longer and longer. Ice 
glitters in the morning light, and clouds 
shiver with snow. The forests lose their 
flush. The hectic dies into sere. The little 
leaf can no longer breathe the strength-giv- 
ing air, nor feel juicy life stirring in its 
veins. Fainter and fainter grows its hold 
upon the protecting tree. A strong wind 
comes and loosens its clasp, and bears it 
tenderly to earth. A whirl, an eddy, a 
rustle, and all is over — no, not all ; its work 
is not yet done. It sinks upon the protect- 
ing earth, and, Antaeus like, gathers 
strength from the touch, and begins a new 
life. It joins hands with myriads of its 
mates, and takes up again its work of be- 
nevolence. 

No longer sensitive itself to frosts and 



439 



440 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



snows, it wraps in its warm bosom the frail 
little anemones, and the delicate spring 
beauties that can scarcely bide the rigors of 
our pitiless winters, and, nestling close in 
that fond embrace, they sleep securely till 
the spring sun wakens them to the smile of 
the blue skies and the song of dancing 
brooks. Deeper into the earth go the happy 
leaves, mingling with the moist soil, drink- 
ing the gentle dews, cradling a thousand 
tender lives in theirs, and springing again 
in new forms — an eternal cycle of life and 
death "forever spent, renewed forever." 

We all do fade as a leaf. Change, thank 
God, is the essence of life. "Passing away" 
is written on all things, and passing away is 



passing on from strength to strength, from 
glory to glory. Spring has its growth, sum- 
mer its fruitage, and autumn its festive in- 
gathering. The spring of eager preparation 
waxes into the summer of noble work ; mel- 
lowing, in its turn, into the serene autumn, 
the golden-brown haze of October, when the 
soul may robe itself in jubilant drapery, 
awaiting the welcome command, "Come up 
higher," where mortality shall be swallowed 
up in life. Let him alone fear who does not 
fade as the leaf — him whose spring is 
gathering no strength, whose summer is 
maturing no fruit, and whose autumn shall 
have no vintage. 

— Gail Hamilton. 



t&& t&* t2& 



"LIMPY TIM." 



ABOUT the big post-office door 
Some boys were selling news, 
While others earned their slender store 
By shining people's shoes. 

They were surprised the other day 

By seeing "Limpy Tim" 
Approach in such a solemn way 

That they all stared at him. 

"Say, boys, I want to sell my kit; 

Two brushes, blacking-pot 
And good stout box — the whole outfit ; 

A quarter buys the lot." 

"Goin' away?" cried one. "O no," 
Tim answered, "not to-day; 

But I do want a quarter so, 
And I want it right away." 

The kit was sold, the price was paid, 

When Tim an office sought 
For daily papers ; down he laid 

The money he had brought. 



"I guess, if you'll lend me a pen, 
I'll write myself," he sighed; 

With slowly moving fingers then 
He wrote this notice, "died — 

Of scarlet fever — Lit id Ted — 
Aged three — gon up to heven — 

One brother left to mourn him dead — 
Funeral to-morrow — eleven." 

"Was it your brother?" asked the man 

Who took the notice in; 
Tim tried to hide it, but began 

To quiver at the chin. 

The more he sought himself to brace 
The stronger grew his grief ; 

Big tears came rolling down his face, 
To give his heart relief. 

"By selling out — my kit — I found — 

That quarter — " he replied ; 
"B — but he had his arms around 

My neck — when he d — died." 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



441 



Tim hurried home, but soon the news 
Among the boys was spread; 

They held short, quiet interviews 
Which straight to action led. 

He had been home an hour, not more, 
When one with naked feet 

Laid down Tim's kit outside his doo~ 
With flowers white and sweet. 

Each little fellow took a part, 
His penny freely gave 



To soothe the burdened brother's heart 
And deck the baby's grave. 

Those flowers have faded since that day, 

The boys are growing men, 
But the good God will yet repay 

The deed he witnessed then. 

The light which blessed poor "Limpy Tim' 

Descended from above — 
A ladder leading back to Him 

Whose Christian name is Love. 



10* t£& fcT* 



THE DYING BOY. 



A FRIEND of mine, seeking for objects 
of charity, reached the upper room of 
a tenement house. It was vacant. He saw 
a ladder pushed through a hole in the ceil- 
ing. Thinking that perhaps some poor 
creature had crept up there, he climbed the 
ladder, drew himself through the hole, and 
found himself under the rafters. There 
was no light but that which came through 
a bull's eye in the place of a tile. Soon he 
saw a heap of chips and shavings, and on 
them lay a boy about ten years old. 

"Boy, what are you doing here?" 

"Hush, don't tell anybody, please, sir." 

"What are you doing here ?" 

"Hush, please don't tell anybody, sir ; I'm 
a-hiding." 

"What are you hiding for ?" 

"Don't tell anybody, please, sir." 

"Where's your mother?" 

"Please, sir, mother's dead." 

"Where's your father?" 

"Hush, don't tell him. But look here." 
He turned himself on his face, and through 
the rags of his jacket and shirt my friend 
saw that the boy's flesh was terribly bruised, 
and his skin was broken. 

"Why, my boy, who beat you like that ?" 

"Father did, sir." 



"What did he beat you for?" 

"Father got drunk, sir, and beat me 'cos 
I wouldn't steal." 

"Did you ever steal ?" 

"Yes, sir; I was a street-thief once." 

"And why won't you steal any more?" 

"Please, sir, I went to the mission school, 
and they told me there of God and of 
heaven, and of Jesus, and they taught me, 
'Thou shalt not steal,' and I'll never steal 
again, if my father kills me for it. But 
please don't tell him." 

"My boy, you mustn't stay here. You'll 
die. Now you wait patiently here for a 
little time. I'm going away to see a lady. 
We will get a better place for you than 
this." 

"Thank you, sir; but please, sir, would 
you like to hear me sing my little hymn?" 

Bruised, battered, forlorn, friendless, 
motherless, hiding from an infuriated 
father, he had a little hymn to sing. 

"Yes, I will hear you sing your little 
hymn." 

He raised himself on his elbow and then 
sang: 

"Gentle Jesus, meek and mrld, 
Look upon a little child, 



442 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



Pity my simplicity, 

Suffer me to come to Thee. 

"Fain would I to Thee be brought 
Gracious Lord, forbid it not; 
In the kingdom of Thy grace, 
Give a little child a place." 

"That's the little hymn, sir. Good-bye." 
The gentleman hurried away for restora- 
tives and help, came back again in less than 
two hours, and climbed the ladder. There 
were the chips, there were the shavings, and 



there was the little motherless boy with one 
hand by his side and the other tucked in 
his bosom — dead. Oh, I thank God that he 
who said, "Suffer little children to come 
unto me," did not say "respectable chil- 
dren," or "well-educated children." No, he 
sends his angels into the homes of poverty 
and sin and crime, where you do not like to 
go, and brings out his redeemed ones, and 
they are as stars in the crown of rejoicing 
to those who have been instrumental in en- 
lightening their darkness. 



5,5* &5* *3* 



CHARITY'S MEAL. 



A RICH man sat by his chamber window, 
Viewing the skies, where the clouds 
hung low ; 
'Twas a darksome day in raw December, 
And the air was filled with the falling 
snow. 

But he was rich in worldly treasure, 

And none of the outside cold did feel ; 
Fortune had blest him with heaping 
measure, 
And he knew not the chill of a charity 
meal. 

A wayfaring man in rags and tatters, 
Weary and hungry, sick and sore — 

Clothes all covered with muddy spatters, 
Came knocking at the rich man's door. 

A plate of cold potatoes was given, 

(The snow on the window panes con- 
geal), 
But, oh, there is nothing 'twixt earth and 
heaven, 
So cold to the heart as a charity meal. 

Ask the winds why poor men wander, 
Ask the storm why the wild geese fly; 

Or, why does the slave on liberty ponder, 
Or the weary wish for the sweet by and 
by. 



We must take this world just as we find it, 
And not judge it by what we think it 
should be; 
Nor lay all the blame on the powers behind 
it- 
Most of the blame lays on you, sir, and 
me. 

Slowly the old man munched his dinner, 
For his molars had long since gone to de- 
cay, 

He may have been a hardened old sinner, 
But what was that to charity, pray? 

Cold were the looks which the rich man 
gave him, 
Cold were the thoughts in his heart of 
steel ; 
But, colder than all for the tramp, God save 
him, 
Were the cold potatoes of charity's meal. 

There he sat eating and silently weeping, 
For the old man's spirit was broken, I 
know; 
And sad were the thoughts in his shattered 
mind creeping — 
Thoughts of the night in the wind and 
the snow. 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



443 



To lay by the fire all night was denied him, 
(Some human hearts no compassion can 
feel) ; 
But, with words cold and stern, the rich 
man did chide him, 
And sent him adrift with that charity 
meal. 

Down the bleak road he watched the tramp 
going, 
Then turned from the window with a 
yawn of content; 
Forgetting the tramp and the winter winds 
blowing, 
For vagabonds seemed but a common 
event. 

That night sleeping soundly on his soft 
yielding pillow, 
The rich man dreamed of his childhood 
day; 
And visions came to him on memory's bil- 
low, 
And again with his brother in the old 
home did play. 

Again they were swimming in the old mill 
, basin, 
And the air was scented from the red 
clover field; 
And again in the water the brothers were 
racing 
Almost tired out, but neither would yield. 

The miller came out on seeing their danger, 
For both of the swimmers were nearing 
the wheel, 
And he shouted to them to go back, in 
anger, 
Or a blow from his pole on their heads 
they would feel. 

And now both the boys are alive to their 
danger, 
For the current is drawing them into the 
flume ; 



And the miller, in fright, forgets all his 
anger, 
And plunged in to save the bad boys from 
their doom. 

"Take Edward out first, for he is the light- 
est!" 
The one brother shouted while panting 
for breath. 
And then, great God! that loved face, the 
whitest 
Went under the wheel, and, they thought 
to sure death. 

They found him below with legs and arms 
broken, 
And long weary months was he gaining 
his health, 
"And where is he now?" said the rich man 
awaking ; 
"To see him again I would give half my 
wealth." 

Next morning the earth was all covered 
with whiteness, 
For all the night long came the snow 
tumbling down ; 
But now the sunbeams were glimmering in 
brightness, 
And the rich man felt happy as he rode 
towards town. 

But what are these men doing here by the 
bushes ? 
Lifting some object from off the cold 
ground. 
"What is it? who is it?" he asks, as he 
rushes 
Up to the spot where the dead tramp was 
found. 

"Some poor tramp," one said. "We found 
him here lying 
As dead as a door nail — as stiff as a log. 



444 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC: 



It must have been hard to be all alone — 
dying, 
Dying alone, like some poor homeless 
dog." 

The rich man knelt down, and helped by 
another, 



They opened his coat and his old ragged 

vest. 
Oh God!" he shouted, "My brother! my 

brother ! 
Oh, heaven forgive me — see the scar on 

his breast!" 



t£* $5* <5* 



DEATH OF 

JO is very glad to see his old friend; 
and says, when they are left alone, 
that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. 
Sangsby should come so far out of his way 
on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, 
touched by the spectacle before him, im- 
mediately lays upon the table half-a-crown, 
that magic balsam of his for all kinds of 
wounds. 

"And how do you find yourself, my poor 
lad ?" inquires the stationer, with his cough 
of sympathy. 

"I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," re- 
turns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm 
more cumf'bler nor you can't think, Mr. 
Sangsby. I'm werry sorry that I done it, 
but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." 

The stationer softly lays down another 
half-crown, and asks him what it is that he 
is sorry for having done. 

"Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv 
a illness to the lady as was and yet as war'nt 
the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says 
nothink to me for having done it, on ac- 
counts of their being so good and my hav- 
ing been 'o unfertnet. The lady come herself 
and see me yes'day, and she ses, 'Ah Jo !' 
she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo !' 
she ses. And she sits down a smilin' so 
quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look 
upon me for having done it, she don't, and 
I turns agin the wall, I does, Mr. Sangsby. 
And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to 



LITTLE JO. 

turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, 
he come fur to give me somethink fur to 
ease me, wot he's alius a doin' on day and 
night, and wen he come a bendin' over me 
and speakin' up so bold, I see his tears a 
falling Mr. Sangsby." 

The softened stationer deposits another 
half-crown on the table. Nothing less than 
a repetition of that infallible remedy will 
relieve his feelings. 

"Wot I wos thinkin' on, Mr. Sangsby," 
proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos able to write 
wery large, p'raps ?" 

"Yes, Jo, please God," returns the sta- 
tioner. 

"Uncommon precious large, p'raps ?' r says 
Jo, with eagerness. 

"Yes, my poor boy." 

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I was 
thinkin' on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that 
when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could 
go, and couldn't be moved on no furder, 
whether you might be so good, p'raps, as 
to write out, wery large, so that anyone 
could see it anywheres, as that I wos wery 
truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I 
never went fur to do it ; and that though I 
didn't know nothink at all, I know'd as Mr. 
Woodcot once cried over it, and wos alius 
grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be 
able to forgive me in his mind. If the 
writin' could be made to say it wery large 
he might." 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



445 



"It shall say it, Jo; very large." 
Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangs- 
by. It's very kind of you, sir, and it makes 
me more cumf bier nor I wos afore." 

The meek little stationer, with a broken 
and unfinished cough, slips down his 
fourth half-crown, — he has never been so 
close to a case requiring so many, — and is 
fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this 
little earth, shall meet no more. No more. 
{Another Scene. — Enter Mr. Wood- 
court.) 

"Well, Jo, what is the matter ? Don't be 
frightened." 

"I thought," says Jo, who has started, 
and is looking round, "I thought I was in 
Tom-all-Alone's agin. An't there nobody 
here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" 

"Nobody." 

"And I an't took back to Tom-all- 
Alone's, am I, sir?" 

"No." 

Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I am very 
thankful." 

After watching him closely a little while, 
Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and 
says to him in a low, distinct voice: "Jo, 
did you ever know a prayer?" 

"Never knowd nothink, sir." 

"Not so much as one short prayer?" 

"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chad- 
bands he wos a prayin' wunst at Mr. Sangs- 
by's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if 
he wos a speakin' to hisself, and not to me. 
He prayed a lot, but / couldn't make out 
nothink on it. Different times there wos 
other gen'l'men come down Tom-all-Alone's 
a prayin', but they all mostly sed as the 
t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly 
sounded to be a talkin' to theirselves, or a 
passin' blame on the t'others, and not a 
talkin' to us. We never knowd nothink. / 
never knowd what it wos all about." 

It takes him a long time to say this ; and 



few but an experienced and attentive 
listener could hear, or hearing, understand 
him. After a short relapse into sleep or 
stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong ef- 
fect to get out of bed. 

"Stay, Jo, stay! What now?" 
"It's time for me to go to that there 
berryin' ground, sir," he returns with a wild 
look. 

"Lie down, and tell me. What burying 
ground, Jo?" 

"Where they laid him as wos wery good 
to me; wery good to me indeed, he wos. 
It's time for me to go down to that there 
berryin' ground, sir, and ask to be put along 
with him. I wants to go there and be ber- 
ried. He used fur to say to me, T am as 
poor as you, to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants 
to tell him that I am as poor as him, now, 
and have come there to be laid along with 
him." 

"By-and-by, Jo ; by-and-by." 

"Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos 
to go myself. But will you promise to have 
me took there, sir, and laid along with 
him?" 

"I will, indeed." 

"Thankee, sir! Thankee, sir! They'll 
have to get the key of the gate afore they 
can take me in, for it's alius locked. And 
there's a step there, as I used fur to clean 
with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. 
Is there any light a comin' ?" 

"It is coming fast, Jo." 

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, 
and the rugged road is very near its end. 

"Jo, my poor fellow !" 

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a 
gropin' — a gropin' — let me catch hold of 
your hand." 

"Jo, can you say what I say?" 

"I'll say any think as you say, sir, for I 
knows it's good." 

"Our Father." 



446 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



sir. 



"Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, 

"Which art in Heaven." 

"Art in Heaven! — Is the light a comin', 



sir r 



"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy 

Name." 

"Hallowed be — thy — name !" 



The light is come upon the dark be- 
nighted way. Dead. 

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and 
gentlemen. Dead, Righ Reverends and 
Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, 
men and women, born with heavenly com- 
passion in your hearts. And dying thus 
around us every day. 

— Charles Dickens. 



f£& t&* t£& 



THE SINGER'S CLIMAX. 



IF you want to hear 'Annie Laurie' sung 
come to my house to-night," said a 
man to his friend. "We have a love-lorn 
fellow in the village who was sadly wrecked 
by the refusal of a young girl to whom he 
had been paying attention for a year or 
more. It is seldom he will attempt the 
song, but when he does I tell you he draws 
tears from eyes unused to weeping." 

A small select party had assembled in a 
pleasant parlor, and were gayly chatting 
and laughing when a tall young man en- 
tered whose peculiar face and air instantly 
arrested attention. He was very pale, with 
that clear, vivid complexion which dark- 
haired consumptives so often have ; his 
locks were as black as jet, and hung pro- 
fusely upon a square white collar; his eyes 
were very large and spiritual, and his brow 
was such a one as a poet should have. But 
for a certain wandering look, a casual ob- 
server would have pronounced him a man 
of uncommon intellectual powers. The 
words "poor fellow," and "how sad he 
looks" went the rounds, as he came for- 
ward, bowed to the company, and took his 
seat. One or two thoughtless girls laughed 
as they whispered that he was "love- 
cracked," but the rest of the company 
treated him with respectful deference. 

It was late in the evening when singing 



was proposed, and to ask him to sing 
"Annie Laurie" was a task of uncommon 
delicacy. One song after another was sung, 
and at last that one was named. At its 
mention the young man grew deadly pale, 
but he did not speak; he seemed instantly 
to be lost in reverie. 

"The name of the girl who treated him 
so badly was Annie," said a lady, whisper- 
ing to the new guest, "but oh! I wish he 
would sing it; nobody else can do it 
justice." 

"No one dares to sing 'Annie Laurie' be- 
fore you Charles," said an elderly lady. 
"Would it be too much for me to ask you 
to favor the company with it?" she asked, 
timidly. 

He did not reply for a moment; his lip 
quivered, and then looking up as if he saw 
a spiritual presence, he began. Every soul 
was hushed, — it seemed as if his voice were 
the voice of an angel. The tones vibrated 
through nerve and pulse and heart, and 
made one shiver with the pathos of his feel- 
ing; never was heard melody in a human 
voice like that — so plaintive, so soulful, so 
tender and earnest. 

He sat with his head thrown back, his 
eyes half closed, the locks of dark hair 
glistening against his pale temple, his fine 
throat swelling with the rich tones, his 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



447 



hands lightly folded before him, and as he 
sung 

''And 'twas there that Annie Laurie 
Gave me her promise true," 

it seemed as if he shook from head to foot 
with emotion. Many a lip trembled, and 
there was no jesting, no laughing, but in- 
stead, tears in more than one eye. 

And on he sung and on, holding every 
one in rapt attention, till he came to the last 
verse : 

"Like dew on the gowan lying 
Is the fa' of her fairy feet, 
And like winds in summer sighing 
Her voice is low and sweet, 
Her voice is low and sweet, 



And she's a' the world to me — " 
He paused before he added, 
"And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'll lay me down and dee." 

There was a long and solemn pause. The 
black locks seemed to grow blacker — the 
white temples whiter — almost imperceptibly 
the head kept falling back — the eyes were 
close shut. One glanced at another — all 
seemed awe-struck — till the same person 
who had urged him to sing laid her hand 
gently on his shoulder, saying: 

"Charles! Charles!" 

Then came a hush — a thrill of horror 
crept through every frame — the poor, tried 
heart had ceased to beat. Charles, the love- 
betrayed, was dead. 



^5* <(£* c£* 



IN MANILA BAY. 



IN the broad Manila Bay 
The Spanish cruisers lay, 
In the shelter of their forts upon the 
shore ; 
And they dared their foes to sail 
Thro' the crashing iron hail 

Which the guns from decks and battle- 
ments would pour. 

All the harbor ways were mined, 
And along the channel blind 

Slept the wild torpedoes, dreaming 
dreams of wrath. 
Yea ! the fiery gates of hell 
Lay beneath the ocean's swell, 

Like a thousand demons ambushed in the 
path. 

Breasting fierce Pacific gales, 
Lo! a little squadron sails, 

And the Stars and Stripes are floating 
from its spars. 
It is friendless and alone, 



Aids and allies it has none, 

But a dauntless chorus sing its dauntless 
tars: 

"We're ten thousand miles from home; 
Ocean's wastes and wave and foam 

Shut us from the land we love so far 
away. 
We have ne'er a friendly port 
For retreat as last resort, 

But we'll beard the ships of Spain in 
their own bay. 

"They have mines beneath the sea, 
They have forts upon their lee, 

They have everything to aid them in the 
fray ; • 
But we'll brave their hidden mines, 
And we'll face their blazing lines; 

Yes! We'll beard the ships of Spain in 
their own bay. 

"If we're worsted in the fight, 



448 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC, 



We shall perish in the right — 

No hand will wipe the dews of death 
away. 
The wounded none will tend, 
For we've not a single friend; 

But we'll beard the ships of Spain in 
their own bay. 

"No ironclads we sail, 
Only cruisers light and frail, 

With no armor plates to turn the shells 
away. 
All the battleships now steer 
In another hemisphere, 

But we'll beard the ships of Spain in 
their own bay. 

"Ho! Remember now the Maine! 
Up! And smite the ships of Spain! 

Let them not forget for years this first 
of May! 
Though hell blaze up from beneath, 
Forward through the cannon's breath, 

When Dewey leads into Manila Bay." 

There, half-way round the world, 
Swift and straight the shots were hurled, 
And a handful of bold sailors won the 
day. 



Never since earth was begun 
Has a braver deed been done 

Than when Dewey sailed into Manila 
Bay. 

God made for him a path 
Thro' the mad torpedoes' wrath, 

From their slumbers never wakened into 
play. 
When dawn smote the east with gold, 
Spaniards started to behold 

Dewey and his gallant fleet within their 
bay. 

Then from forts and warships first 
Iron maledictions burst, 

And the guns with tongues of flame be- 
gan to play ; 
Like demons out of hell 
The batteries roar and yell, 

While Dewey answers back across the 
bay. 

O gods ! it was a sight, 

Till the smoke, as black as night, 

Hid the fire-belching ships from light of 
day. 
When it lifted from the tide, 
Smitten low was Spanish pride, 

And Dewey was the master of their bay. 



K&* &5* t3& 



THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. 



HE offered himself for the land he loved, 
But what shall we say for her? 
He gave to his country a soldier's life ; 
'Twas dearer by far to the soldier's wife, 
All honor to-day to her ! 

He went to the war while his blood was 
hot, 

But what shall we say of her? 
He saw himself through the battle's flame 
A hero's reward on the scroll of fame ; 

What honor is due to her ? 



He offered himself, but his wife did more, 

All honor to-day to her ! 
For dearer than life was the gift she gave, 
In giving the life she would die to save; 

What honor is due to her? 

He gave up his life at his country's call, 

But what shall we say of her? 
He offered himself as a sacrifice, 
But she is the one who pays the price; 
All honor we owe to her. 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



449 



LEAVE "OLD GLORY" AS IT IS. 



IF "Old Glory" remains in its present 
starred and barred form it will be no 
fault of several well-meaning but sadly dis- 
torted minds. Every day brings forth 
somebody with a "plan" of a new flag to 
fit the newer national conditions. All are 
interesting as showing the deep concern in 
the country's development; some display 
signs of artistic conception, others have 
nothing to recommend them at all. 

A western man thinks the stars should 
be rearranged so as "to make room for 
those symbolizing Cuba, Porto Rico and the 
Philippines," and the bars of red as now 
arranged are "indistinct when seen at a dis- 
tance" and ought to be either broader or 
farther separated by the white stripes. All 
the "plans" suggest a rearrangement of the 
stars so as to include the "island posses- 
sions." 

The vital mistake in these new flag plans 
is that they provide for something which 
does not exist. The United States has no 
"island possessions," and it is doubtful if 
it will have in the sense that they must or 
will be entitled to representation on the 
blue field. The stars stand for the forty-five 
states in the Union. The several territories 



are not manifest, nor will they be so long 
as they remain out of the statehood. 

The United States flag is one of the most 
beautiful in a purely artistic sense in the 
whole international collection. It is clear, 
bold in lines, and the red, white and blue 
make a harmonious whole in color effect. 
The person who can't see the red and white 
bars at a reasonable distance ought to con- 
sult an oculist ; his vision is defective or he 
is color-blind. 

If anybody wants to know how really 
beautiful "Old Glory" is, he or she should 
behold it in foreign lands waving and 
cracking from the peak of one of Uncle 
Sam's war vessels, or from the masthead of 
a merchant ship. All the paintings of 
Angelo, Rubens, Vandyke, Corot and the 
whole world of masters combined are not 
half so beautiful or inspiring or enchanting 
or soulful or anything else. Men have been 
known to jump into the air, shout them- 
selves hoarse, swing their arms and twist 
their legs at the sight of the American flag 
away from home. 

"Old Glory" is all right as it is, and so 
is the country it represents and the 75,000,- 
000 people who are always ready to fight to 
defend it. 



c£* t.5* C(5* 

ABSALOM. 



THE waters slept. Night's silvery veil 
hung low 
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd 
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, 
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. 
The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow 

leaves, 
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, 
Forgot the lifting winds; and the long 

stems, 



the water, like a gentle 



Whose flowers 

nurse, 
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 
And lean'd in graceful attitudes to rest. 
How strikingly the course of nature tells, 
By its light heed of human suffering, 
That it was fashion'd for a happier world! 



King David's limbs were weary, 
fled 



He had 



450 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



From far Jersualem ; and now he stood, 
With his faint people, for a little rest 
Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind 
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his 

brow 
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn 
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt 
That he could see his people until now. 
They gather'd round him on the fresh green 

bank, 
And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the 

sun 
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them 

there, 
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray. 
Oh! when trie heart is full — when bitter 

thoughts 
Come crowding quickly up for utterance, 
And the poor common words of courtesy 
Are such an empty mockery — how much 
The bursting heart may pour itself in 

prayer ! 
He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up 
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for 

those 
Whose love had been his shield — and his 

deep tones 
Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — 
For his estranged, misguided Absalom — 
The proud, bright being who had burst 

away, 
In all his princely beauty, to defy 
The heart that cherish'd him — for him he 

pour'd 
In agony that would not be controll'd, 
Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
Was straighten'd for the grave ; and, as the 

folds 
Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd 
The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 



Were floating round the tassels as they 

sway'd 
To the admitted air, as glossy now 
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bath- 
ing 
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. 
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soil'd 
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, 
Reversed, beside him; and the jewell'd hilt, 
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his 

blade, 
Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. 
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, 
Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, 
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 
A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his 

blade 
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form 
Of David enter'd, and he gave command, 
In a low tone, to his few followers, 
And left him with his dead. The king stood 

still 
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off 
The sackcloth from his broW, and laying 

back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
He bow'd his head upon him, and broke 

forth 
In the resistless eloquence of woe. 

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst 
die! 
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 
And leave his stillness in this clustering 
hair! 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, 
My proud boy, Absalom ! 

"Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill, 
As to my bosom I have tried to press 
thee: 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



451 



How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to 
caress thee, 
And hear thy sweet 'My father ?' from these 
dumb 

And cold lips, Absalom! 

"But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 

Of music and the voices of the young; 
And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 
And the dark tresses to the soft wind 
flung; 
But thou no^ more, with thy sweet voice, 
shalt come 

To meet me, Absalom! 

"And oh ! when I am stricken, and my 
heart, 
Like a bruised reed, is wasting to be 
broken, 
How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep 
token ! 



It were so sweet, amid death's gathering 
gloom, 

To see thee, Absalom ! 

"And now, farewell ! Tis hard to give thee 
up; 
With death so like a slumber on thee ; 
And thy dark sin ! — oh ! I could drink the 
cup, 
If from this woe its bitterness had won 
thee. 
May God have call'd thee like a wanderer, 
home, 

My lost boy, Absalom !" 

He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself 
A moment on his child; then giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp'd 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ! 
And, as if a strength were given him of 

God, 
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall 
Firmly and decently, and left him there, 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 



<*7* C^* ^5* 



THE COUNTERSIGN WAS "MARY." 



J HP WAS near the break of day, but still 

1 The moon was shining brightly ; 
The west wind as it passed the flowers 

Set each one swaying lightly; 
The sentry slow paced to and fro, 

A faithful night-watch keeping, 
While in the tents behind him stretched 

His comrades — all were sleeping. 

Slow, to and fro, the sentry paced, 

His musket on his shoulder, 
But not a thought of death or war 

Was with the brave young soldier ; 
Ah, no ! his heart was far away, 

Where on a western prairie, 
A rose-twined cottage stood. That night 

The countersign was "Mary." 



And there his own true love he saw, 

Her blue eyes kindly beaming, 
Above them on her sun-kissed brow, 

Her curls like sunshine gleaming, 
And heard her singing as she churned 

The butter in the dairy, 
The song he loved the best. That night 

The countersign was "Mary." 

"Oh, for one kiss from her!" he sighed, 

When up the lone road glancing, 
He spied a form, a little form, 

With faltering steps advancing. 
And as it neared him silently, 

He gazed at it in wonder, 
Then dropped his musket to his hand, 

And challenged, "Who goes yonder?" 



452 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



Still on it came. "Not one step more, 

Be you man, child or fairy, 
Unless you give the countersign, 

Halt ! Who goes there?"—" Tis Mary,' 
A sweet voice cried, and in his arms 

The girl he'd left behind him 
Half fainting fell. O'er many miles 

She'd bravely toiled to find him. 

"I heard that you were wounded, dear," 
She sobbed. "My heart was breaking, 

I could not stay a moment, but 
All other ties forsaking, 



I traveled, by my grief made strong, 
Kind heaven watching o'er me, 

Until unhurt and well" — "Yes, love, 
At last you stood before me." 

"They told me that I could not pass 

The lines to seek my lover 
Before day fairly came; but I 

Pressed on ere night was over, 
And as I told my name I found 

The way as free as prairie." 
"Because, thank God! to-night," he said, 

"The countersign is 'Mary.' ' 



c5* c5* c<5* 



THE AGED PRISONER. 



NIGH on to twenty years 
Have I walked up and down this 
dingy cell ! 
I have not seen a bird in all that time 
Nor the sweet eyes of childhood, nor the 

flowers 
That grow for innocent men, — not for the 
curst, 
Dear God ! for twenty years. 

"With every gray-white rock 
I am acquainted ; every seam and crack, 
Each chance and change of color; every 

sfone 
Of this cold floor, where I by walking much 
Have worn unsightly smoothness, that its 
rough 
Old granite walls resent. 

"My little blue-eyed babe, 
That I left singing by my cottage door, 
Has grown a woman — is perchance a wife. 
To her the name of 'father' is a dream, 
Though in her arms a nestling babe may 
rest, 

And on her heart lie soft. 

"Oh, this bitter food 
That I must live on ! this poisoned thought 



That judges all my kind, because by men 
I have been stripped of all that life holds 

dear — 
Wife, honor, reputation, tender child — 
For one brief moment's madness. 

"If they had killed me then, 
By rope, or rack, or any civil mode 
Of desperate, cruel torture, — so the deed 
Were consummated for the general good — 
But to entomb me in these walls of stone 

For twenty frightful years ! 

"Plucked at my hair — 
Bleached of all color, pale and thin and 

dead — 
My beard that to such sorry length has 

grown ; 
And could you see my heart, 'tis gray as 

these — 
All like a stony archway, under which 
Pass funerals of dead hopes. 

"To-morrow I go out ! 
Where shall I go? what friend have I to 

meet? 
Whose glance will kindle at my altered 

voice ? 
The very dog I rescued from his kind 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



453 



Would have forgotten me, if he had lived. 
I have no home — no" hope!" 

An old man, bent and gray, 
Paused at the threshold of a cottage door. 
A child gazed up at him with startled eyes, 
He stretched his wasted hands — then drew 

them back 
With bitter groan : "So like my little one 

Twenty years ago !" 

A comely, tender face 
Looked from the casement; pitying all 

God's poor, 
"Come in, old man!" she said, with gentle 

smile, 
And then from out the fullness of her heart, 
She called him "Father," thinking of his 
age; 
But he, with one wild cry, 



Fell prostrate at her feet. 
"O child!" he sobbed, "now I can die. 

When last 
You called me father — was it yesterday? 
No ! no ! your mother lived, — now she is 

dead! 
And mine was living death — for twenty 
years — 
For twenty loathsome years !" 

Her words came falteringly: 
"Are you the man — who broke my mother's 

heart ? 
No ! no ! O father, — speak ! 
Look up — forget !" Then came a stony 

calm. 
Some hearts are broken with joy — some 
break with grief, 
The old gray man was dead. 



t5* *<5* ^7* 



WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 



THE birthday of the "Father of his 
Country!" May it ever be freshly 
remembered by American hearts! May it 
ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration 
for his memory; ever rekindle the fires of 
patriotic regard for the country which he 
loved so well, to which he gave his youth- 
ful vigor and his youthful energy, during 
the perilous period of the early Indian war- 
fare; to which he devoted his life in the 
maturity of his powers, in the field; to 
which again he offered the counsels of his 
wisdom and his experience, as president of 
the convention that framed our Constitu- 
tion ; which he guided and directed while 
in the chair of State, and for which the last 
prayer of his earthly supplication was of- 
fered up, when it came the moment for him 
so well, and so grandly, and so calmly, to 
die. He was the first man of the time in 
which he grew. His memory is first and 



most sacred in our love, and ever hereafter, 
till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the 
last American heart, his name shall be a 
spell of power and of might. 

Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one 
vast felicity, which no man can share with 
him. It was the daily beauty, and towering 
and matchless glory of his life which en- 
abled him to create his country, and at the 
same time secure an undying love and re- 
gard from the whole American people. 
"The first in the hearts of his countrymen !" 
Yes, first! He has our first and most fer- 
vent love. Undoubtedly there were brave 
and wise and good men before his day in 
every colony. But the American nation, as 
a nation, I do not reckon to have begun be- 
fore 1774. And the first love of that Young 
America was Washington. The first word 
she lisped was his name. Her earliest 
breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejacu- 



454 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



lation ; and it will be the last gasp of her ex- 
piring life! Yes; others of our great men 
have been appreciated — many admired by 
all; — but him we love; him we all love. 
About and around him we call up no dis- 
sentient and discordant and dissatisfied ele- 
ments — no sectional prejudice nor bias — no 
party, no creed, no dogma of politics. None 
of these shall assail him. Yes: when the 
storm of battle blows darkest and rages 
highest, the memory of Washington shall 
nerve every American arm, and cheer every 
American heart. It shall relume that 
Promethean fire, that sublime flame of 



patriotism, that devoted love of country 
which his words have commended, which 
his example has consecrated : 

"Where may the wearied eye repose, 

When gazing on the great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows 

Nor despicable state? 
Yes — one — the first, the last, the best, 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but one." 

— Rufus Choate. 



%&& t&fc t2& 



THE BOOTBLACK. 



HERE y'are — ? Black your boots, boss, 
Do it for jest five cents; 
Shine 'em up in a minute — 
That is 'f nothin' prevents. 

Set your right foot on there, sir ; 

The mornin's kinder cold — 
Sorter rough on a feller 

When his coat's gettin' old. 

Well, yes — call it coat, sir, 

Though 'tain't much more'n a tear; 
Can't get myself another — 

Ain't got the stamps to spare. 

Make as much as most on 'em? 

That's so ; but then, yer see, 
They've only got one to do for; 

There's two on us, Jack and me. 

Him? Why— that little feller 
With a doubled-up sorter back, 

Sittin' there on the gratin' 
Sunnin' hisself — that's Jack. 

Used to be round sellin' papers, 
The cars ther was his lay, 



But he got shoved off the platform, 
Under the wheels, one day. 

Yes, the conductor did it — 
Gave him a reg'lar throw ; 

He didn't care if he killed him ; 
Some on 'em is just so. 

He's never been all right since, sir, 
Sorter quiet and queer — 

Him and me go together, 
He's what they call cashier. 

Trouble? I guess not much, sir, 
Sometimes when biz gets slack 

I don't know how I'd stand it 
If 'twasn't for little Jack. 

Why, boss, you ought to hear him ; 

He says we needn't care 
How rough luck is down here, sir, 

If some day we git up there. 

All done now — how's that, sir? 

Shine like a pair of lamps. 
Mornin' — give it to Jack, sir, 

He looks after the stamps. 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



455 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S 

WORD was brought to the Danish 
king, (Hurry!) 
That the love of his heart lay suffering, 
And pined for the comfort his voice would 

bring; 
(O! ride as though you were flying!) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and 
pearl; 
And his Rose of the Isles is dying. 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) 
Each one mounted a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need; 
(O! ride as though you were flying!) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; 
Worn-out chargers struggled and sank ; 
Bridles were slackened, and girths were 

burst ; 
But ride as they would, the king rode first; 
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 

His nobles are beaten, one by one; 

(Hurry!) 
They have fainted, and faltered, and 

homeward gone; 
His little fair page now follows alone, 
For strength and for courage crying. 
The king looked back at that faithful 

child; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled. 



RIDE. 

They passed the drawbridge with clatter- 
ing din; 

Then he dropped; and the king alone 
rode in 
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; 

(Silence!) 
No answer came, but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 
Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide; 
None welcomed the king from that weary 

ride; 
For, dead in the light of dawning day, 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 
Who had yearned for his voice while 
dying. 

The panting steed with a drooping crest 

stood weary, • 
The king returned from her chamber of 

rest, 
The thick sobs choking in his breast; 
And, that dumb companion eyeing, 
The tears gushed forth, which he strove 

to check; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck; 
"O, steed, that every nerve didst strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, 
To the halls where my love lay dying!" 
— Caroline E. Norton. 



NOBODY'S CHILD. 

(A girl dressed in ragged clothes, and the stage darkened.) 



ALONE, in the dreary, pitiless street, 
With my torn old dress and bare cold 
feet, 
All day I wandered to and fro 
Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go; 
The night's coming on in darkness and 

dread, 
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare 
head ; 



Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so 

wild? 
Is it because I'm nobody's child? 

Just over the way there's a flood of light, 
And warmth and beauty, and all things 

bright; 
Beautiful children, in robes so fair, 
Are caroling songs in rapture there. 



456 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 
Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
Wandering alone in the merciless street, 
Naked and shivering and nothing to eat? 

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes 

down 
In its terrible blackness all over the town? 
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, 
On the cold, hard pavements alone to die? 
When the beautiful children their prayers 

have said, 
And mammas have tucked them up 

snugly in bed, 
No dear mother ever upon me smiled — 
Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's 

child? 

No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
In all the world loves me; e'en the little 

dogs run 
When I wander too near them; 'tis 

wondrous to see, 
How everything shrinks from a beggar 

like me! 



Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but sometimes when 

Hie 
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 
Watching for hours some large bright star, 
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. 

And a host of white-robed nameless 

things, 
Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings ; 
A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
Caresses gently my tangled hair, 
And a voice like the carol of some wild 

bird— 
The sweetest voice that ever was heard — 
Calls me many a dear pet name, 
Till my heart and spirits are all aflame; 
And tells me of such unbounded love, 
And bids me come up to their home above, 
And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, 
They look at me with their sweet blue eyes, 
And it seems to me out of the dreary night, 
I am going up to the world of light, 
And away from the hunger and storms so 

wild — 
I am sure I shall then be somebody's 

child. 



c5* «<5* *(5* 

MEASURING THE BABY. 



WE measured the riotous baby 
Against the cottage wall — 
A lily grew on the threshold, 

And the boy was just as tall; 
A royal tiger-lily, 

With spots of purple and gold, 
And a heart like a jeweled chalice, 
The fragrant dew to hold. 

Without, the bluebirds whistled 
High up in the old roof-trees, 

And to and fro at the window 
The red rose rocked her bees; 

And the wee pink fists of the baby 
Were never a moment still, 



Snatching at shine and shadow 
That danced on the lattice-sill. 

His eyes were wide as bluebells — 

His mouth like a flower unblown — 
Two little bare feet, like funny white mice, 

Peeped out from his snowy gown; 
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture 

That had yet a touch of pain, 
When June rolls around with her roses, 

We'll measure the boy again. 

Ah me! in a darkened chamber, 
With the sunshine shut away, 

Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, 
We measured the boy to-day; 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



457 



And the little bare feet that were dimpled 
And sweet as a budding rose, 

Lay side by side together, 
In a hush of a long repose! 

Up from the dainty pillow, 

White as the risen dawn, 
The fair little face lay smiling, 

With the light of heaven thereon; 
And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves 

Dropped from a rose, lay still, 



Never to snatch at the sunshine 
That crept to the shrouded sill! 

We measured the sleeping baby 

With ribbons white as snow, 
For the shining rosewood casket 

That waited him below; 
And out of the darkened chamber 

We went with a childless moan — 
To the height of the sinless angels 

Our little one had grown. 



s&w s&b c?* 



REGULUS TO THE ROMAN 



ILL does it become me, O Senators of 
Rome, — ill does it become Regulus, 
after having so often stood in this vener- 
able assembly clothed with the supreme 
dignity of the Republic, to stand before 
you a captive, — the captive of Carthage. 
Though outwardly I am free, though no 
fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the 
flesh, — yet the heaviest of chains, — the 
pledge of a Roman Consul, — makes me the 
bondsman of the Carthaginians. They 
have my promise to return to them, in the 
event of the failure of this, their embassy. 
My life is at their mercy. My honor is 
my own; — a possession which no reverse 
of fortune can jeopard; a flame which im- 
prisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, 
death cannot extinguish. 

Of the train of disasters which followed 
close on the unexampled successes of our 
arms, — of the bitter fate which swept off 
the flower of our soldiery, and consigned 
me, your General, wounded and senseless, 
to Carthaginian keeping, — I will not 
speak. For five years, a rigorous captivity 
has been my portion. For five years, the 
society of family and friends, the dear 
amenities of home, the sense of freedom, 
and the sight of country, have been to me a 
recollection and a dream, — no more. But 



during that period Rome has retrieved her 
defeats. She has recovered under Metellus 
what under Regulus she lost. She has 
routed armies. She has taken unnumbered 
prisoners. She has struck terror into the 
hearts of the Carthaginians, who have now 
sent me hither with their ambassadors to 
sue for peace, and to propose that, in ex- 
change for me, your former Consul, a 
thousand common prisoners of war shall 
be given up. You have heard the ambassa- 
dors. Their intimations of some unimagin- 
able horror, I know not what, impending 
over myself, should I fail to induce you to 
accept their terms, have strongly moved 
your sympathies in my behalf. Another 
appeal, which I would you might have 
been spared, has lent force to their suit. 
A wife and child, threatened with widow- 
hood and orphanage, weeping and despair- 
ing, have knelt at your feet on the very 
threshold of the Senate-chamber: — Con- 
script Fathers! Shall not Regulus be 
saved? Must he return to Carthage to 
meet the cruelties which the ambassadors 
brandish before your eyes? With one 
voice you answer, No! 

Countrymen! Friends! For all that I 
have suffered, — for all that I may have to 
suffer, — I am repaid in the compensation 



458 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



of this moment! Unfortunate you may 
hold me; but oh, not undeserving! Your 
confidence in my honor survives all the 
ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. 
You have not forgotten the past. Repub- 
lics are not ungrateful. May the thanks 
which I cannot utter bring down blessings 
from the gods on you and Rome! 

Conscript Fathers! There is but one 
course to be pursued. Abandon all 
thought of peace. Reject the overtures 
of Carthage. Reject them wholly and 
unconditionally. What! give back to her 
a thousand able-bodied men, and receive 
in return one attenuated, war-worn, fever- 
wasted frame, — this weed, whitened in a 
dungeon's darkness, pale and sapless, 
which no kindness of the sun, no softness 
of the summer breeze, can ever restore to 
health and vigor? It must not, — it shall 
not be! Oh! were Regulus what he was 
once, before captivity had unstrung his 
sinews and enervated his limbs, he might 
pause, — he might proudly think he were 
well worth a thousand of his foe; he might 
say, "Make the exchange! Rome shall 
not lose by it!" But now, alas! now 'tis 
gone, — that impetuosity of strength, which 
could once make him a leader indeed, to 
penetrate a phalanx or guide a pursuit. 
His very armor would be a burden now. 



His battle-cry would be ~ drowned in the 
din of the onset. His sword would fall 
harmless on his opponent's shield, But if 
he cannot live, he can at least die for his 
country. Do not deny him this supreme 
consolation. Consider: every indignity, 
every torture, which Carthage shall heap 
on his dying hours, will be better than a 
trumpet's call to your armies. They will 
remember only Regulus, their fellow-sol- 
dier and their leader. They will regard 
only his services to the Republic. Tunis, 
Sardinia, Sicily, every well-fought field, 
won by his blood and theirs — will flash on 
their remembrance, and kindle their 
avenging wrath. And so shall Regulus, 
though dead, fight as he never fought be- 
fore against the foe. 

Conscript Fathers! There is another 
theme. My family, — forgive the thought! 
To you and to Rome I confide them. I 
leave them no legacy but my name, — no 
testament but my example. 

Ambassadors of Carthage! I have 
spoken, though not as you expected. I 
am your captive. Lead me back to 
whatever fate may await me. Doubt not 
that you shall find, to Roman hearts, coun- 
try is dearer than life, and integrity more 
precious than freedom! 

J8 



THE CHILD MUSICIAN. 



HE had played for his lordship's levee, 
He had played for her ladyship's 
whim, 
Till the poor iittle head was heavy 
And the poor little brain would swim. 

And the face grew peaked and eerie, 
And the large eyes strange and bright, 

And they said — too late — "He's weary! 
He shall rest for, at least, to-night!" 



But at dawn, when the birds were waking, 
As they watched in the silent gloom, 

With the sound of a strained cord break- 
ing 
A something snapped in the room. 

'Twas a string of his violoncello 
And they heard him stir in his bed: — 

"Make room for a tired little fellow, 
King God!" was the last that he said. 



HISTORICAL AXD PATHETIC. 



459 



CATO OX IMMORTALITY 



IT must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest [ 
well! 

Else whence this pleasing- hope, this fond j 
desire, 

This longing after immortality? 

Or whence this secret dread, and inward 
horror, 

Of falling into naught! Why shrinks the 
soul 

Back on herself, and startles at destruc- 
tion? 

'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 

Tis heaven itself, that points our here- 
after, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful 
thought! 

Through what variety of untried being, 

Through what new scenes and changes 
must we pass! 

The wide, the unbounded prospect lies be- 
fore me; 

But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest 
upon it. 

Here will I hold. If there's a Power 
above us, — 



And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 
Through all her works, He must delight in 

virtue; 
And that which he delights in must be 

happy, 
But when? or where? This world was 

made for Caesar. 
I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end 

them. 

(Laying his hand on his sword.) 

Thus am I doubly armed. My death and 

life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to my end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in 

years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amid the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of 

worlds. 

— Joseph Addison. 



& 



DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. 

(This oration has now become the "banner oration," having taken more medals at oratori- 
cal contests than any other written, — is suitable for any patriotic occasion.) 



FIFTY years ago, in a rude garret, near 
the loneliest suburbs of the city of 
London, lay a dying man. He was but 
half dressed; though his legs were con- 
cealed in long military boots. An aged 
minister stood beside the rough couch. 
The form was that of a strong man grown 
old through care more than age. There 
was a face that you might look upon but 
once, and yet wear it in your memory for- 
ever. 



Let us bend over the bed, and look 
upon that face. A bold forehead seamed 
by one deep wrinkle visible between 
the brows — long locks of dark hair, 
sprinkled with gray; lips firmly set, 
yet quivering, as though they had a 
life separate from the life of the man; 
and then, two large eyes — vivid, burn- 
ing, unnatural in their steady glare. 
Ay, there was something terrible in that 
face — something so full of unnatural lone- 



460 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



liness — unspeakable despair, that the aged 
minister started back in horror. But look! 
those strong arms are clutching at the va- 
cant air; the death-sweat stands in drops 
upon that bold brow — the man is dying. 
Throb — throb — throb — beats the death- 
watch in the shattered wall. "Would you 
die in the faith of the Christian?" faltered 
the preacher, as he knelt there on the 
damp floor. 

The white lips of the death-stricken 
man trembled, but made no sound. 
Then, with the strong agony of death 
upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. 
For the first time he spoke. "Christian!" 
he echoed in that deep tone which thrilled 
the preacher to the heart. "Will that 
faith give me back my honor? Come with 
me, old man, come with me, far over the 
waters. Ha! we are there! This is my na- 
tive town. Yonder is the church in which 
I knelt in childhood; yonder the green on 
which I sported when a boy. But an- 
other flag waves yonder, in place of the 
flag that waved when I was a child. 

"And listen, old man, were I to pas's 
along the streets, as I passed when but a 
child, the very babes in their cradles 
would raise their tiny hands, and curse 
me! The graves in yonder churchyard 
would shrink from my footsteps; and 
yonder flag would rain a baptism of blood 
upon my head!" 

That was an awful death-bed. The 
minister had watched "the last night" 
with a hundred convicts in their cells, but 
had never beheld a scene so terrible as this. 
Suddenly the dying man arose; he tottered 
along the floor. With those white fingers, 
whose nails were blue with the death-chill, 
he threw open a valise. He drew from 
thence a faded coat of blue, faced with 
silver, and the wreck of a battle-flag. 

"Look ye, priest! this faded coat is 



spotted with my blood!" he cried, as old 
memories seemed stirring at his heart. 
"This coat I wore, when I first heard the 
news of Lexington; this coat I wore, when 
I planted the banner of the stars on 
Ticonderoga! that bullet-hole was pierced 
in the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a 
— let me whisper in your ear!" He 
hissed that single burning word in the 
minister's ear. "Now help me, priest! 
help me to put on this coat of blue; for 
you see" — and a ghastly smile came over 
his face — "there is no one here to wipe 
the cold drops from my brow; no wife, no 
child. I must meet Death alone; but I will 
meet him, as I have met him in battle, 
without a fear!" 

And while he stood arraying his limbs 
in that worm-eaten coat of blue and silver, 
the good minister spoke to him of faith in 
Jesus. Yes, of that great faith, which 
pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls 
thenrback from the face of God. "Faith!" 
echoed that strange man, who stood there, 
erect, with the death-chill on his brow, 
"Faith! Can it give me back my honor? 
Look ye, priest! there, over the waves, sits 
George Washington, telling to his com- 
rades the pleasant story of the eight years' 
war; there, in his royal halls, sits George 
of England, bewailing, in his idiotic voice, 
the loss of his colonies! And here am I! 
— I, who was the first to raise the flag of 
freedom, the first to strike a blow against 
that king — here am I, dying! oh, dying 
like a dog." 

The awe-stricken preacher started back 
from the look of the dying man, while 
throb — throb — throb — beats the death- 
watch in the shattered wall. "Hush! 
silence along the lines there!" he mut- 
tered, in that wild, absent tone, as though 
speaking to the dead; "silence along the 
lines! not a word — not a word, on peril of 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



461 



your lives! Hark you, Montgomery! we 
will meet in the center of the town; — we 
will meet there in victory, or die! — Hist! 
silence, my men — not a whisper, as we 
move up those steep rocks! Now on, my 
boys — now on! Men of the wilderness, 
we will gain the town! Now up with the 
banner of the stars — up with the flag of 
freedom, though the night is dark, and 
the snow falls! Now! now, one more 
blow, and Quebec is ours!" 

And look! his eye grows glassy. With 
that word on his lips, he stands there — ah! 
what a hideous picture of despair! erect, 
livid, ghastly; there for a moment, and 
then he falls! — he is dead! Ah, look at 
that proud form, thrown cold and stiff 
upon the damp floor. In that glassy eye 
there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy — 
a sublimity of despair. Who is this strange 
man lying there alone, in this rude garret; 
this man, who, in all his crimes, still treas- 
ured up in that blue uniform, that faded 
flag? Who is this being of horrible re- 
morse — this man, whose memories seem 



to link something with heaven, and more 
with hell? 

Let us look at that parchment and flag. 
The aged minister unrolls that faded flag; 
it is a blue banner gleaming with thirteen 
stars. He unrolls that parchment; it is a 
colonel's commission in the Continental 
army addressed to Benedict Arnold! And 
there, in that rude hut, while the death- 
watch throbbed like a heart in the shat- 
tered wall — there, unknown, unwept, in all 
the bitterness of desolation, lay the corpse 
of the patriot and the traitor. 

Oh that our own true Washington had 
been there, to sever that good right arm 
from the corpse ; and, while the dishonored 
body rotted into dust, to bring home that 
noble arm, and embalm it among the holi- 
est memories of the past! For that right 
arm struck many a gallant blow for free- 
dom; yonder at Ticonderoga, at Quebec, 
Champlain, and Saratoga — that arm, yon- 
der, beneath the snow-white mountains, 
in the deep silence of the river of the dead, 
first raised into light the Banner of the 
Stars. — George Leppard. 



MOTHER AND POET. 

(The "mother" in this superb ode was Laura Savio, a poet and ardent patriot of Turin, 

who lost two sons in the revolutionary struggles — one at Anacona on the Adriatic 

Sea, the other at Gaeta, on the Mediterranean.) 



DEAD! one of them shot by the sea in 
the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the 
sea. 
Dead! both my boys! When you sit at 
the feast, 
And are wanting a great song for Italy 
free, 

Let none look at me! 

Yet I was a poetess only last year, 
And good at my art for a woman, men 
said. 



But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in 
her head 

Forever instead. 

What art's for a woman? To hold on her 
knees 
Both darlings! to feel all their arms 
round her throat 
Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees 
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat 
little coat! 
To dream and to dote. 



462 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



To teach them. It stings there. I made 
them indeed 
Speak plain the word "country." I 
taught them no doubt 
That a country's a thing men should die 
for at need. 
I prated of liberty, rights and about 
The tyrant turned out. 

And when their eyes flashed. . .O my 
beautiful eyes! . . . 
I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the 
wheels 
Gf the guns, and denied not. — But then 
the surprise, 
When one sits quite alone! — Then one 
weeps, then one kneels! 

— God! how the house feels! 

At first happy news came, in gay letters 
moiled 
With my kisses, of camp-life and glory 
and how 
They both loved me, and soon, coming 
home to be spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from 
my brow 

With their green laurel-bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin. "Anaconawas 
free!" 
And some one came out of the cheers in 
the street 
With a face pale as stone, to say some- 
thing to me. 
My Guido was dead! — I fell down at his 
feet, 

While they cheered in the street. 

I bore it — friends soothed me: my grief 
looked sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- 
mained 

To be leant on and walked with, recalling 
the time 



When the first grew immortal, while 
both of us strained 

To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, 
more strong, 
Writ now but in one hand. "I was not 
to faint. 
One loved me for two. .would be with me 
ere long: 
And 'Viva Italia,' he died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 

My Nanni would add "he was safe, and 
aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls 
.... was imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what I 
could bear, 
And how 'twas impossible, quite dis- 
possessed, 

To live on for the rest." 

On which without pause up the telegraph 
line 
Swept smoothly the next news from 
Gaeta : — Shot. 
Tell his mother. Ah, ah,— "his," "their" 
mother: not "mine." 
No voice says "my mother" again to me. 
What? 

You think Guido forgot? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy 
with Heaven, 
They drop earth's affections, conceive 
not of woe? 
I think not. Themselves were too lately 
forgiven 
Through that Love and Sorrow which 
reconciled so 

The Above and Below. 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who 
look'dst through the dark 



HISTORICAL AND PATHETIC. 



463 



To the face of Thy mother! consider, I 
pray, 
How we common mothers stand desolate, 
mark, 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with 
eyes turned away, 

And no last word to say! 

Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. 
We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must 
always keep one. 
'Twere imbecile, hewing our roads to a 
wall. 
And, when Italy's made, for what end is 
it done 

If we have not a son? 

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what 
then? 
When the fair wicked queen sits no 
more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls 
out of men? 
When your guns of Cavalli with final 
retort 

Have cut the game short, — 

When Venice and Rome keep their new 
jubilee, 
When your flag takes all heaven for its 
white, green and red, 

When you have your country from moun- 
tain to sea, 



When King Victor has Italy's crown on 
his head, 

(And I have my Dead,) 

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring 
your bells low, 
And burn your lights faintly! — My 
country is there, 
Above the star pricked by the last peak of 
snow. 
My Italy's there, — with my brave civic 
Pair, 

To disfranchise despair. 

Forgive me. Some women bear children 
in strength, 
And bite back the cry of their pain and 
self-scorn. 
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring 
us at length 
Into wail such as this! — and we sit on 
forlorn 

When the man-child is born. 

Dead! — one of them shot by the sea in the 
west, 
And one of them shot in the east by the 
sea! 
Both! both my boys! — If in keeping the 
feast 
You want a great song for your Italy 
free, 

Let none look at me! 

— Mrs. Browning. 



IUL. ?4 190? 



THE HINSHAW SCHOOL 

OF 

OPERA and DRAMA 

STEIXWAX THEATRE BUILDING 
CHICAGO, ILL.. 

William Wade Hinshaw ant> Marvin Victob Hinshaw 

DIRECTORS 



TTHE HINSHAW SCHOOL OF 
** OPERA AND DRAMA is ac- 
knowledged to be one of the leading 
schools of its kind in the country, 
and is endorsed by all Leading 
Theatrical Managers and Actors of 
both New York and Chicago. 

Pupils prepared for the stage and 
given public appearances in full roles 
in the best Operas and Dramas. 
Engagements with best American 
Companies Guaranteed to our grad- 
uates. 



BEAUTIFULLY ILLUSTHATED CATALOGUE MAILED FREE TO 
ANY ADDBESS ON APPLICATION 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



021 100 517 8 



